My Favorite Faded Fantasy
by Mindy35
Summary: They both have a fantasy about what it all could be with the other. The sequel to "Cheers Darlin'" and "9 Crimes" and the final installment in my Rice Trilogy. An AU in which Olivia is married with kids (...but secretly in love with her partner who's secretly in love with her but now in a relationship with someone else...)
1. Prologue

Title: My Favorite Faded Fantasy

Author: mindy35

Rating: T/M, adult themes

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Dick Wolf, NBC et al. Lyrics are all property of Damien Rice and are used with great admiration but no permission. No infringement intended on either or any money made.

Spoilers: Nada

Pairing(s): Elliot/Olivia, Elliot/Other, Olivia/Other

Summary: They both have a fantasy about what it all could be with the other. The sequel to "Cheers Darlin'" and "9 Crimes" and the final installment in what I'm calling my Rice Trilogy. An AU in which Olivia is married with kids but secretly in love with her partner who's secretly in love with her but now in a relationship with someone else. Heavy on the angst and on the meta with alternating POVs.

A/N: Welcome back and sorry for the delay, I had to go do a thing (finish my degree). I hope readers of the first two installments find this completion worth the wait. There are some out there who favourited those stories but not me as an author and therefore will not receive updates. So if you know anyone who might be interested in reading or if you wish to promote this trilogy, please feel free to do so with my thanks.

A/N2: All lyrics used in this story are from Damien Rice's third album "My Favourite Faded Fantasy." The lyrics at the top of these first two chapters are from the song entitled "The Box". (I apologise to Maestro Rice for Americanising the spelling of this title and these lyrics for the purposes of an American based story. In my notes I will continue to use British/Irish/Australian spelling because I am just that persnickety... :) )

Please read forth and enjoy…

* * *

 **prologue**

 _So don't give me love with an old book of rules  
That kind of love's just for fools  
And I'm over it  
And my reasons for walking away  
My reasons for wanting to change  
My reasons for everything are lost with you..._

God, what happens now?

It was a good question, an obvious question. But she's got no real answer to give him. She can't believe she's put herself in this situation. She can't believe she's put her partner in this situation. She can't believe she's put her husband in it. Her kids, her colleagues. She consorts with people on a daily basis who are reckless with their own sexual health. Or with someone else's. She judges them, advises them, every single day. Yet how is she any better?

She always wanted kids. Always. But she wanted them to come into a stable environment, a secure home. When she fell pregnant with the twins, Elliot Stabler had only just entered her life, his unsettling presence causing her to very tentatively question her relationship with her long-time boyfriend. At that time, she'd been in the process of transitioning from one version of the pill to another, one that would release her from the ever-attendant headaches and fatigue. In the interim, a microscopic gap in her cycle opened up, allowing biology to take its natural course. The timing was…not great. But there was never any question about whether she would keep her babies. Olivia believed in a woman's right to choose, but for her, there was never a choice.

In the years that followed, she thought the twins would be it. She felt she could manage their care with her career and relationship. By then, she and Graham rarely slept together and not only because of her demanding schedule. They'd started seeing their shrink and she'd recommended taking a break from sex. She said they need to explore other forms of intimacy – talking, touching, kissing, hugging, snuggling. It was during this mutually agreed upon drought that she breathed an internal sigh of relief and quit taking her birth control pills. This meant that the one time she and Graham did make love, on the anniversary of their first meeting, they used an old condom that broke. And so their third child was conceived.

After that, Olivia relied on simple timing. She'd monitor her cycle and Graham would pull out before orgasming. He hadn't come inside her in years. Not until their honeymoon, which he clearly considered a special occasion. She'd been too wrapped up in illicit fantasies of Elliot Stabler to notice the change in their routine. A change that reoccurred once more after their return, throwing a looming question mark over the paternity of her child. Because being too wrapped up in the fantasy of Elliot Stabler was also what caused her to make only a minor calculation in her mind as she tugged on his tie, urging him to follow her to the couch on which their bodies finally joined. She'd just wanted him too damn much, that was all. She'd thrown caution to the wind because she craved his hands on her, his mouth on her. _Him_ inside her. And it was every bit as incredible as she'd imagined it would be. Having his weight lying between her legs, having his mouth dip down and claim hers, having him come inside her, with her.

It still did things to her when she thought about it. Things her husband has never been able to achieve, not in decades of sharing her bed. She's got to not think about it though. She's got to not think about how her partner stood barefoot in his kitchen, wearing briefs and a grin as he made her a post-coital omelet. She's got to not think about how he put extra pepper in it without asking because that's how he knew she liked it, because he'd figured that out years before. She's got to not think about his slick skin under her hands, lathered with soap, warm water running in rivulets down his solid muscles and precious bones. She's got to not think about the scars she traced with her fingertips, the puckered mark where a bullet had penetrated his thigh, the thin slash where a knife once speared his chest. She's got to not think about waking up to see him gazing right back at her. Or his breath on her neck. His palms on her thighs. His fingers parting her. How he fit so perfectly inside her, how she'd never felt anything like it in her life.

She's got to not think about any of that because there are so many other things for her to think about. She's got to think about blood tests and sonograms and prenatal vitamins. She's got to dig out any of the baby clothes she hasn't donated, check whether there's still a bassinet folded up in in that dusty spare closet. She'll have to find time in her schedule to go buy maternity clothes she can wear at work. She'll need to organize maternity leave and check with Graham's mother about babysitting. She's got to practice her breathing and work out a birth plan and consider names of both genders. She's got to attend regular appointments with her shrink and her husband as they try to work out whether their marriage is able to be salvaged. And she's got to be home more, spend less time with her partner and more time with her family. It's one of Graham's few demands.

She told him everything in Elliot's absence. She had to. Once she figured out she was pregnant, she came clean. She told him about the night her partner found her drinking, the entanglement Charlie caught them in. Graham remembered it, remembered the fight they'd had, the yelling she'd done, the placating he'd tried to do. He remembered leaving without a word and not returning until sunrise. Olivia also told him that the night she sought out her partner at his apartment she'd been drinking, but that she wasn't drunk. It wasn't the drink that made her go to him, slap him, kiss him, repeatedly take him into her body. That was all her. Her husband took it characteristically well. He'd risen from his seat, walked toward her and taken her shoulders in his hands. He'd kissed her forehead and told her they'd get through it together. Dropping his hands, he'd said he didn't want her working with Elliot anymore. He said she should request a new partner, for everyone's sake. His numerous indiscretions with colleagues he still worked with meant he couldn't push this point though.

For this, Olivia was mildly grateful. She knows it's still possible that this will be the end for her and Elliot. Whether she's carrying his baby or not. She's put him in an awful, unthinkable position. She feels ashamed of her erratic, irresponsible behavior. She feels ashamed of the claim she felt over him, of the jealousy that arose when she saw him happy with another woman, his arm around her shoulders, his lips on hers. She feels ashamed that the strain of her denied attraction and entitled silence caused her to buy a bottle of cheap vodka and sit alone in her car, drinking from a police issue mug. She's ashamed that she couldn't bring herself to talk to her partner about what she was feeling. But that, like the teenage brat she'd thought she'd long grown out of, she'd used her fists instead.

There – oddly – her sense of shame does stop. Or, at least, suspend. She is, of course, ashamed to have betrayed her partner's friendship, her husband's trust, her children's innocence and her own better judgement with her actions that night. But she's not ashamed of her actions in and of themselves. And that is a minor relief. Because the shame comes back in, swift and strong and merciless, if she thinks about how she left his bed. About how she couldn't answer her phone or hear his voice or speak to him until she'd cleared her head, got some distance. Part of her was relieved when he disappeared, another part angry, another part confused, another concerned. She certainly didn't expect him to desert her for so long, didn't know what to make of his continued absence and silence. By the time he returned, she was so utterly exhausted, so twisted up in knots from trying to figure out what on earth he was thinking, feeling, doing out there in Virginia, that she couldn't face him alone. She knew what she had to do, she just couldn't do it. So she took the coward's way out, delivering the news of her pregnancy in front of their colleagues.

She was only postponing the inevitable by minutes. She knew she'd have to be alone with him again, she'd have to face him one-on-one at some point. Especially if she wanted to remain his partner. Which she did. For however long he'd have her. For however long they'd be permitted to maintain a professional alliance. As they finally face each other though, once again alone, the tart, cold air of the precinct bathroom sitting thick about them, she feels woefully unprepared. She should've been planning this conversation for weeks, she should have been devising a half decent response to his very simple, very legitimate question. She wrote several dozen lists while he was at Quantico. She listed all the things she needed to do, all the things she needed to consider – other than him. The trash can by their desks is currently crammed with scrunched up, discarded lists, none of which even mention his name. None of which give her any sort of clue as to how to answer his question.

So Olivia just shakes her head, hoping her partner can forgive her for her silence.

 _ **TBC...**_


	2. Chapter 1

Rating: T/M, adult themes

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Dick Wolf, NBC etc. Lyrics are all property of Damien Rice. No infringement intended on either or any money made.

Spoilers: Nada

Pairing(s): Elliot/Olivia, Elliot/Other, Olivia/Other

Summary: They both have a fantasy about what it all could be with the other. The sequel to "Cheers Darlin'" and "9 Crimes".

A/N: Thanks to the specials who commented on the prologue, it's lovely to have you on this journey with me. :)

* * *

 **i.**

 _Well, I have tried but I don't fit_  
 _Into this box I'm living with_  
 _I could go wild_  
 _But you might lock me up_  
 _And I have tried but I don't fit_  
 _Into this box you call a gift  
When I could be wild and free  
But, God forbid, then you might envy me..._

The silence continues for two days. There are plenty of questions but no possible answers. Things they simply cannot know – not for weeks yet. So they say nothing. They answer the ringing phones, they do their jobs, they fill out their 5s. And at the end of each shift, they pause momentarily, looking at each other across their desks before saying goodnight and heading home to their separate residences. Once, she catches him looking at her stomach, his eyes sliding downwards, peering through the layers of her jacket and coat, curious but cautious. Olivia takes the hot dog from the vendor whose cart they frequent and hands it to her partner. Elliot's expression instantly turns sheepish, his eyes diverting.

It's at this unremarkable point, at this unsentimental location that she chooses to tell him that she's about six weeks along but that the paternity of her child remains an incalculable mystery. That's how she frames it, how she tells him. Paternity unknown. Like she's talking about a case. Like a victim or a corpse. Her partner shuffles closer to her. It's noisy on the street, a church clock chiming and a motorbike putting by making it nearly impossible for him to hear her. She kind of likes the cover, feels shielded from her own immoral conduct. She takes a bite of her dog, resists the urge to retch then tells him that Graham wants her to have a paternity test performed when she's far enough along. Her husband says none of them can plan or live or move on until they know for certain what they are planning for. Elliot nods a few times, looks down at his uneaten dog. Then he tells her the choice is hers. He tells her that an amniocentesis procedure is invasive and that she doesn't need to do anything for his sake. He says she shouldn't feel pressured into doing something that might endanger the baby or that she herself is uncomfortable with. Olivia smiles slightly because his training is kicking in, all that sensitivity she drilled into him during the first few months of their partnership.

Of course, it's also possible that he just doesn't want to know. She knows she doesn't. She's asked herself if she's resistant to the idea of a paternity test simply because of what her gut tells her the results will be. She could tell him right now what she already knows to be true in her gut. Or he could ask. But he doesn't. And his phone rings. So they head back to their sedan, inhaling their hot dogs on their way to a new crime scene. The moment they pull up to the curb, she loses control of her stomach, running to the nearest trash can to throw up her recently ingested lunch. Elliot waits on the pavement. He's started carrying tissues and gum in his pockets. He hands her a tissue when she re-joins him, looks away as she wipes her mouth. Then he offers her a stick of gum, smiling slightly as he pops another into his own mouth. He asks if she is okay and, when she nods, he rests a hand on her back as they continue on to the crime scene.

 **-x-**

It's weeks before she makes a solid decision and a few more days before she works up the nerve to actually tell him. On another Friday night on which they forgo their customary drinks. She's been ducking the conversation all day but doesn't want to do it over the phone – she needs to see his face for this, she needs to gauge his response, however opaque it may be. So shortly after she sees Elliot head for the locker room, she follows, weaving through the banks and round the bunks until she finds him. He's standing at his open locker door, chin tipped up as he stares into the tiny mirror and struggles with a black bow-tie. He's already showered and shaved, he's even wearing some sort of cologne. And a black jacket lies across the bench, matching the black trousers he wears. He spots her in the mirror and turns with a frustrated growl. Olivia can't help smiling, can't help muttering:

"Wow. You look…good."

"Weak-at-the-knees good?" he asks, giving up on the tie and reaching for his jacket.

She averts her eyes, not watching how the sleeves of his shirt pull tight against the muscles of his arms, how that pull also hints at the strong lines of his chest as he throws the jacket on his body. "Where're you off to?"

He shrugs the jacket into place, clears his throat. "Ah, Maria likes the ballet so…we'll see how long I can stay awake."

She leans back against a neighboring locker. "You can always try the trick my training officer taught me on patrol."

He looks up at her from beneath his brows. "Which is?"

"Hand in your pocket," she replies, miming with one hand, "pinch your thigh until your eyes water."

He chuckles and nods, "Might just do that," then slams his locker shut.

Olivia pushes away from the locker, standing up straight. "Before you go…"

Elliot stalls in place, the uncertainty they've both been masking betraying itself on his face, in his eyes and stance. "Ye-ah?"

She takes a breath, glances at the floor then returns her gaze to his. It takes all of her training and talent in deception to keep her face neutral and her voice from wavering as she tells him, "I just wanted to let you know that I've decided to get the amnio done."

His brow creases and jaw tightens. "Y'sure?" he asks after a short pause.

She nods and looks away. "Yeah. Graham's right. We can't live our lives on hold. It's not fair to him. Or you. Or…Maria…"

Elliot slides his hands into his pockets and balls them up. "Want me to go with you?"

"No. No…But—"

"You'll need a sample."

"Right." She steps past him, opening her locker as he moves slowly in the direction of the door. Her eyes go to his back as he retreats. "…El?"

He turns, meets her gaze with a deep frown.

Her lips twitch up in one corner. "Thanks for offering…though."

He nods, takes one hand from his pocket and half lifts it at his side. "Let me know if you change your mind."

She turns back to her locker, releasing him from this commitment and their conversation. "Have a good night."

"Yeah," he murmurs before disappearing out the door. "You too…"

Olivia pulls a few things from her locker, moving by rote, without any awareness in her mind or strength in her limbs. She can only maintain movement for a moment or two. Then she sighs, drops her hands, sags her shoulders. On the inside of her locker are several photos. One with tattered edges shows her and Graham a year or so after they met. Her hair is long, her bangs windswept, her jean jacket faded and her smile wide. One of his arms is around her while his opposite hand grips her elbow. She used have to tell him not to hold onto her so tight. She used have to tell him it hurt. But that was years ago now.

Backing to the bench, she sits down without taking her eyes off the photos. There's one of the boys when they were young – they wear matching pyjamas and play with matching toy trucks. Another was taken when they were older, after their sister arrived. Sophie looks just like her while her boys are the spitting image of her husband. Next to this photo is one taken by a local bartender at a cop bar. She can't even remember what they were celebrating. Was it Munch's engagement or Cassidy's divorce? Her and Elliot's promotion? Or merely another wrapped case, another week they all by some miracle survived? There are eight of them, propped on stools or against the bar. Cragen stands to one side, looking unflappable in his suspenders. Cassidy has his arm slung around a female rookie who barely lasted a week in the unit. Jeffries is glaring at Munch who's looking smug post-quip. Briscoe is toasting the camera while she and Elliot both give glassy-eyed, exhausted smiles. She is perched on a stool and Elliot stands beside her, his arm stretching behind her along the bar. The shoulders of their jackets almost touch.

Her eyes drift slowly back and forth between the images, recalling the elements of her past life that now seem to be colliding in her present. All suddenly seem incapable of fitting together, of finding space for each other's existence. Before she can unjumble and slot the puzzle pieces into place though, her thoughts are interrupted. It's Graham on the other end of the trilling phone, asking where she is, when she will be home, if she will be home, whether she is planning to join them for dinner and the twins' nightly homework ritual. Olivia bites her lip, suppressing the need to tell him not to hold onto her so tight. She understands why he would, after all she's done to endanger their life, all they've both done. She tells him she's on her way, assures her husband she'll be home soon. Then she shuts the door to her locker and heads out.

 **-x-**

For the next month or so, they can't do anything but wait and work and speculate. At the end of this interminable period, she goes to her partner with a cotton swab. Elliot takes it from her and silently swabs the inside of his mouth. He puts the swab in its tube, the tube in its pouch, eyes fixed on hers the entire time.

Olivia takes the plastic pouch, looks down at it then back up at him. "I'll let you know," she murmurs before heading for the door.

As she exits, she hears Fin ask what the hell that was about. And she hears Elliot answer dryly:

"She's tryin' to figure out who's been stealing her lunch."

 **-x-**

She closes the door, descends the steps.

She can't go home. Not yet. Not right away.

So she wanders, aimlessly through a park, coat hugged about her. Eventually, it gets too cold. And she finds herself standing at a pale yellow door, watching her chilled fist knock. Several second pass. There are voices behind the door, lilting laughter. Maureen answers, smile faltering when she sees her. Her manner is cool but she invites Olivia in then calls out to her girlfriend, retreating to another room when Rebecca enters. Her former partner's head tips to one side as she wipes her floury hands on a dish towel.

"Olivia…?"

Olivia waves a vague hand. "Sorry to…"

"It's okay," she murmurs, gesturing to the couch. "Are you alright?"

She nods and sits slowly down. It's warm in Rebecca and Maureen's apartment but she still feels cold. Jittery. And as nauseous as ever.

Rebecca sits beside her, hands in her aproned lap. "What's going on?"

She releases a pathetic laugh-sob-sigh then admits, "Well…I'm pregnant again."

Rebecca nods a few times, offers the usual congratulations then waits expectantly for more. "Graham must be thrilled," she offers, gently prodding her on.

Olivia looks her in the eye for the first time since entering. "Graham…isn't the father."

A flash of surprise passes over her face. But no judgement. Rebecca lowers her voice and her chin as she asks, "Elliot?"

Her lips part. "…How—?"

She doesn't answer her unfinished question, Rebecca simply asks, "Does he know?"

Olivia shakes her head, swipes at one escaped tear. "He's seeing someone else. And he doesn't want this, he's never wanted this."

"You don't know that."

"I know him."

Rebecca places a hand on her shoulder. "Then you know Elliot will do the right thing—"

Olivia shrugs off the hand, gets to her feet. "I don't want him to have to."

"What _do_ you want?" Rebecca asks from behind her.

She stalks to a window, gazes out it a moment then leans back against the sill. Her answer, when it comes, is so simple it sounds idiotic, even to her. "I…want…my kids to be happy."

Rebecca raises her brows, asks in that intimate, knowing tone that always used to annoy Olivia while simultaneously endearing her friend to her softer instincts. "What do you want for yourself?"

She shakes her head again, lifts a hand to her brow. She has no answers, she really doesn't. That's why she's here. To figure out what the hell she's going to say to…everybody. "I don't know…" she sighs, her breath coming out in a rush and fresh tears beginning to well. "I've made…such a mess of everything."

"Look…" Rebecca rises, steps a little closer, "it is hardly uncommon for deeper feelings to develop between partners in our line of work."

Olivia looks up, meets her gaze, feels pink tinge her cheeks.

"But you won't know anything until you talk to Elliot." Her friend shakes her head, eyes widening slightly as she adds, "You've got to tell him, Olivia."

"I know." She stares at the carpet a long time then stands straighter and says, "There's just someone I need to tell first."

 **-x-**

Graham's cooking when she arrives home, the results of the paternity test in her purse. The house smells like warm butter and sizzling garlic. As she closes the front door and drops her keys in the dish, Sophie tears down the corridor and tackles her ankles. Then she steals the badge from her pocket and starts hopping up and down the stairs chanting _en-eye-dee, en-eye-dee, en-eye-dee!_ Entering the kitchen, Olivia sees Frankie and Charlie perched side-by-side on stools at the breakfast bar, pyjamas already on and homework books open in front of them. They are attempting to engage their dad in a conversation about aliens though, no doubt as a way of avoiding their dreaded division exercises. She sheds her coat, lays two kisses on their wet, combed hair then pulls up a stool to help them complete their math before dinner. Sophie reappears, scaling the stool and climbing into her lap, all pointy knees and clutching fingers and deafening giggles.

As always happens at this time of night when she has been at work all day, gone all week, often leaving before they rise, each of her kids is hungry for her attention, for her love and kisses. Olivia tries to juggle Sophie in her lap, half listening to her stories of playground adventure while also assisting the boys with their school work. The juggling act continues at dinner, Graham patiently telling the kids to speak one at a time and not to overwhelm mommy. After dinner, he bathes Sophie while she sits on the couch and watches the boys' favorite TV show, one of their little bodies sprawled either side of her. Then she goes upstairs to read Sophie off to sleep. It takes three books but eventually, Olivia kisses her head, turns out the light and half closes the door. Passing by the boys' bedroom, she tells the rowdy voices inside to go to sleep. They dive under their covers when she pokes her head in the door and turns out their light as well.

Downstairs, celebrating the end of another chaotic day, Graham lounges on the couch, one ankle folded on the opposite knee as he sips an icy bottle of root beer. He won't bring real beer into the house, not after her relapse. Olivia lets herself drop onto the couch cushions, lets herself be nudged into his embrace. She is about to open her mouth and speak when he lifts the arm that's around her, reaching for a wrapped box sitting on the chest behind the couch. He presents it to her with a small smile, cool lips kissing her forehead. If she had to guess she'd say it was a jewellery box. Probably with a necklace inside. Pearls, if she knows his taste at all. Olivia studies it a moment. Then sets it aside, turning to her husband with four words that she knows will change everything:

"We need to talk."

 _ **TBC...**_


	3. Chapter 2

Rating: T/M, adult themes

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Dick Wolf, NBC etc. Lyrics are all property of Damien Rice. No infringement intended on either or money made.

Spoilers: Nada

Pairing(s): Elliot/Olivia, Elliot/Other, Olivia/Other

Summary: They both have a fantasy about what it all could be with the other. Third story in this trilogy.

A/N: The lyrics at the top of this chapter are from the song "The Greatest Bastard" from the album"My Favourite Faded Fantasy". Thank you again for the lovely long reviews, I appreciate every single one. If you are reading without commenting, you are reading without my permission. I request that my work be read ethically so please put some words in the box if/when you reach it. Thank you :)

* * *

 **ii.**

 _Am I the greatest bastard that you've met?  
The only one you can't forget?  
Am I the one your truth's been waiting for?  
Or am I just dreaming once again?  
Some dreams are better when they end…_

She should've called by now. She should've got the results hours ago.

Elliot glances at the clock by his bed then goes back to staring at the ceiling. Olivia left work early that afternoon – she told him she was getting the results of the paternity test and that she'd let him know the outcome. He'd once again offered to go with her and she'd once again refused. He'd been on tenterhooks all day, all night, ever since the morning he returned to SVU, the morning his long-time partner and one-time lover revealed she was carrying a child of unknown paternity. And so his belly watch began.

In the early stages of her first two pregnancies, Elliot preferred to ignore any changes to Olivia's body. He preferred to deny the truth of her condition. It was only when her stomach grew too big and round to disregard that his eyes would furtively drop, curiously explore. It was a beautiful thing to watch, an extraordinary process. More so when he considered the possibility that the child currently growing inside her might be his, that it might be the product of that incredible night he's tried so hard to forget. That's probably why he's been more curious than before, more eager to witness her belly bulge beyond the normal reaches of her body. One night, when they were lying side-by-side in the crib, on cots separated by only a minor chasm, he allowed himself to imagine that that minuscule child inside her was his. He watched her soft, still flat stomach rise and fall as she dozed, one hand resting peacefully, protectively across her abdomen.

She hadn't said anything to rule him out. She'd barely said anything at all – neither of them had. So in the absence of clarity, of actual facts, Elliot let his mind to drift, permitted the fantasy to bloom. The fantasy of a child with her hair and his eyes. With her integrity and fire and his commitment and obstinacy. A child that hopefully inherited her nose and not his. But something from both of them, the best of both of them. It was a lovely fantasy, an irresistible fantasy. But a fantasy nonetheless, not unlike all the other fantasies his mind had concocted over the years, all revolving around his unattainable partner. Although this particular one could only continue for as long as the father of Olivia's child remained unidentified.

He glances at the clock again. He's been doing that all night, checking his phone every ten minutes. Elliot sighs and throws an arm over his head on the pillow. Maybe the kid is Graham's, maybe that's why she hasn't called. Maybe she and Graham are celebrating a narrow escape. Maybe her husband is making love to her pregnant body while he lies awake and studies the cracks in his ceiling. Maybe— Good God, let it not be another pair of twins, he couldn't take that. Even one of Graham's children budding in her belly would be enough. That would finally do it. He's sure of it. He'd be free, forced to finally let go of his partner, of any and all fantasies he still retained about the two of them. He'd absolutely have to allow her to be the wife and mother she's always been while he went to work on repairing things with Maria, admitting the truth to her, making amends and compelling his heart to fall as deeply in love with her as it could possibly be with any woman who wasn't Olivia Benson. Another child of hers with Graham would make him at last accept Olivia as his partner, his friend. And nothing more. Not his girlfriend or his wife or his lover. Not his ultimate fantasy or cherished soulmate. Not really his, not at all. Not ever.

His hand reaches across to his bedside bureau, tapping blindly about until it finds his cell phone. He lifts it in front of his face – it shows him the late hour but no missed calls, no overlooked messages. Elliot blinks at the thing, rubs his eyes with the back of his hand. He's about to fling the phone back onto the bureau when it buzzes quietly in his hand, Olivia's name appearing on the screen.

 **-x-**

She's waiting on the landing outside his building, leaning back against the stone bannister, a paper cup in each hand. She hands him one as he pushes through the door then waits until he leans back against the block of stone opposite, facing her at the top of the small flight of steps. She peels back the lid on her cup, purses her lips as she blows onto the scolding surface. Then she tips her head at his darkened apartment, his abandoned bed.

"Didn't mean to—"

"I wasn't sleeping," he interrupts with tiny shake of his head.

Olivia nods once and blows again, simultaneously dunking the teabag in her cup. Elliot smiles to himself, because as soon as she fell pregnant, she kicked her coffee habit and took up tea. Again. He loves that predictability of hers almost as much as he loves her infuriating unpredictability. Her absolutely torturous inscrutability.

Taking a sip, she peers at him over the rim before asking, "Maria?"

"Night shift," he says, stripping back the lid of his coffee and taking a sip. It's bitter but hot and not really what he cares about. He licks his lips, bobs his head a few times. "So."

"So," Olivia repeats, head mimicking the movement. Her eyes are in her cup again. Eventually she lifts them, looks up at him, murmuring with practised lightness, "So I guess congratulations are in order."

He stalls, cup halfway to his mouth. "You're…kidding."

"Do I look like I'm kidding?" she mutters into her tea.

His lips part and curl upwards. "…I…"

She frowns at him in confusion, in incomprehension. "Are you seriously smiling right now?"

He shifts his butt against the cold stone, smile increasing. "Shouldn't I be?"

She shakes her head and releases a heavy sigh. "We've got one serious cluster on our hands here."

He nods slowly. "We'll figure it out."

"We'll need to inform Cragen," she adds, after a pause.

"We'll do it together," he assures her, taking another sip of coffee.

"Not…" her eyes drift closed, her head shakes again, "not just yet, okay? Not sure I can take any more big changes."

His smile fades slightly. Elliot stands up from the stone bannister but doesn't move towards her. "Liv…if you don't want to do this—"

"That's," she waves a hand, presses her lips together, "…not what I meant."

He's about to ask what she did mean, he's about to assure her that nothing has to change, even though he knows everything is about to. Everything will and has to and he wants it to. But Olivia gets in before him, taking a deep breath before saying, her voice slow and soft:

"But you…don't have to want this. You don't owe me anything, El, you're not obligated—"

"Not true," he mutters, stepping closer, eyes narrowed at her face. "I'm obligated, Liv. I'm…I'm _in_."

She stares at him a moment, dark, tired eyes scanning his face, searching for something she wants to see. Or doesn't want to. She doesn't seem satisfied by her fleeting, wordless investigation because she frowns then turns away, heading down the worn stone stoop. He watches her, half hesitates before saying her name, making her turn to face him on the pavement. Elliot descends the steps, sits on the second to last one so that their eyes are almost level.

"About…" he murmurs, equally sure and unsure of what he wants to say to her, "about that night—"

"Don't," she cuts him off, inhaling sharply. "God, please not right now."

His body slumps on the step. But he complies, a sad smile twisting his lips as he asks, "No big changes?"

She shakes her head and meets his eyes. "Couldn't take it."

Elliot mutters a soft _'kay_ then extends a hand toward her, elbow resting on his knee. She smiles slightly as she moves in, opposite hand sliding into his. He grips it then releases it, tugging her a little closer. Her palm heeds the signal, sliding further along his arm, up under his sleeve, gripping the underside of his forearm. He does the same, opposite hand gripping just under her elbow, beneath the layers of her clothes. It's part handshake, part monkey grip, part caress. It's something that words can't express. It's many things but it's mostly an agreement – an unspoken pact that they will figure everything out together, taking one day at a time, one hurdle at a time.

After several moments, Olivia withdraws, taking a step back on the pavement. He immediately wants her touch back. Wants to use that retracted arm to draw her closer, between his open legs, into his arms. He wants to touch her chilled cheek and pregnant belly. But instead he lets her go. He watches her walk down the street, slower than her usual swift pace. Watches her get into her car and drive away. Tossing the rest of his coffee into the gutter, Elliot scrunches the paper cup in one hand and drops it into the trash. Then he heads upstairs to begin another day without a wink of sleep.

 **-x-**

She finds him in the Records Room, squatting in front of the lowest drawer of an overflowing filing cabinet. He doesn't notice that she only half enters the room, leaning in the open door as she slides her arms into the sleeves of her coat.

"Hey, there you are—"

"Hey," he responds, adding another file to the pile he's been working on, "I think I've got something—"

"That's great," she interjects, winding a long scarf around her neck, "I have to pop out for an hour or so, I have an appointment."

Elliot stops what he's doing. "Appointment?"

"Sonogram," she replies, pushing the door a little wider open before asking, "You…wanna come?"

"Do I wanna come?"

"Well, it's your—"

He gets to his feet. "Yeah, I wanna come." He kicks the drawer shut and gathers his dusty pile of folders. "Now?"

"Right now," she nods, stepping back and holding the door for him.

Elliot heads back to the squadroom, dumps the stack of case files on his desk. Then he grabs his jacket and coat and follows Olivia out.

 **-x-**

He's been carrying the monochrome picture around with him ever since that first appointment. Olivia asked them to print two of everything. She also told him to calm down, sit down, take a damn breath because he was stressing her out. Elliot tried to obey but couldn't help pacing as they waited for the technician to arrive. He only took his seat at her side when the woman in the lab coat started spreading jelly on Olivia's stomach. He looked up at his partner's face but it was turned towards the screen, patiently waiting and watching. It seemed to take forever for the technician to find something. He wanted to ask if it usually took so long, if something was wrong. Nothing was. It felt like an unreasonable amount of time but it was probably only minutes before the technician announced her success, pausing the screen on the blotch that was their baby.

He gulped and pointed at the screen. "That's…it? Lil Blotchy Stabler?"

"Blotchy Benson-Stabler," Olivia corrected, before asking the nurse a series of questions all of which received the same answer. Everything looked healthy and normal.

Outside, in the car, she passed him an envelope that contained several screenshots of little Blotchy. Elliot smiled sideways at her and slipped one into his breast pocket. That's where it stays while he's working. When he sleeps, it sits by his bed, propped against the base of his lamp. Except for the occasional night when Maria shares his bed.

He doesn't know what he's doing there. Except lying, on a daily basis. Turning avoidance into an Olympic level sport. They both have hectic jobs and insane schedules that often keep them out of each other's lives for days on end. It's made it extremely difficult for him to do anything but maintain the status quo. It's been particularly difficult to find the perfect moment to tactfully confess that he slept with his partner. More than once. That he got another man's wife pregnant. And that he's been in love with the woman currently carrying his baby for years. Since the second he set eyes on her. The second he heard her voice and watched her smile and felt her stride match his. From that moment on, he was in deep. And he only fell deeper with every day, week, month, year that passed.

The problem is he likes Maria. She's sweet, funny, generous and gorgeous. Their relationship – unlike his relationship with his partner – is simple and easy. She's exactly the sort of woman he's avoided dating and exactly the sort of woman he could see himself falling for – if his heart wasn't already claimed. Something about them just works. And Elliot can't dismiss the notion that if he could somehow manage to withdraw his affection from where it isn't welcome, from where it doesn't belong, then maybe he could – they both could – have love. Probably not the kind of love he feels for Olivia. But a calmer sort of love – something not so intense, not so overwhelming, not so tormenting or exhausting.

It's a decent working theory. Of course, it can only succeed as long as Olivia and Maria remain separate, isolated in the segments of his life to which they belong. Unfortunately, his girlfriend has become a frequent visitor to their squadroom. She often pops in before or after her shift, with food or clothes or coffee. She'll kiss his lips, call him _sweetie_ and regale his fellow detectives with stories of her most gruesome deliveries. The last time she did this, she stopped herself mid horror story, turning to Olivia and assuring her that most births go perfectly smoothly. Olivia just smiled and mumbled a hopeful reply. Then she'd darted him a look that could kill – or, at the very least, maim. Elliot got the message. He had to tell her. He had to quit trying to find the perfect moment or the perfect phrase or the perfect excuse. He just had to blurt it out, tell the truth and let the chips fall where they may.

He's going to do it too, he's got it planned for the evening of Olivia's next check-up. He's going to drive his partner to her appointment in the morning then go to dinner with his girlfriend that night. And there, he's going to tell her everything. That's the plan anyway – a plan Maria ruins by turning up at the 16th bright and early, bringing donuts for all. She's on her way to work, dressed in sensible white shoes and blue scrubs with little baby-bearing storks on them. When she offers the box of donuts to Olivia, Elliot snatches them away before his partner can retch and run to the restroom. He grabs one, takes a bite of it then passes the box to Munch to distribute. They'll be gone within the minute. Maria rises up onto her toes to kiss some cinnamon sugar off his lips but Elliot holds up a finger as the phone on his desk rings. He gives a few grunts into the receiver, eyes connecting with Olivia's across their desks. She's already got her coat on, her bag on her shoulder. But by the time he hangs up, she knows he's not coming.

And that's how the woman he likes ends up driving the woman he loves to the hospital. For a check-up on a baby one of them doesn't yet know is his. That's how, after side-stepping all the awkward looks and polite insistence, he ends up watching the woman he's sleeping with walk away with the woman he cheated with. And that's how a stupid case, a horribly timed phone call threatened to rob him of everything he's ever wanted.

 **-x-**

He's still on route when he gets the call. He can't hear Cragen's voice clearly but there's been some sort of accident. Maria and Olivia were both in the car. Olivia is injured. No one is sure how injured. No one knows anything about the baby. Elliot hits the breaks, wrenching the steering wheel to one side. The car skids on the deserted road. He floors the accelerator pedal and the car hurtles back in the direction he's just come.

When he pushes through the doors of the emergency department, Maria is waiting, tear tracks on her face and blood on her hands and shirt. Dried blotches of blood on the baby-bringing storks. She starts towards him, hands outstretched and Elliot takes them in his, holds them tight, eyes wide and breath held as he demands:

"What the hell happened?"

Maria takes a breath, shakes her head. Then speaks in short, gaspy, rueful sentences. "Lorry driver. Ran a red light. Clipped us. I…lost control of the car. Your partner…she— was crushed against some scaffolding—"

Elliot peers over her shoulder. "Where is she?"

"In surgery."

His panic skyrockets. "Surgery?"

"She has some internal bleeding."

His hands on hers loosen, his brow crumples. "…The baby?"

"They know she's pregnant," she nods, tone calming to one of professional detachment. "They'll do their best to take care of them both."

Elliot drops her hands, reaches for the door marked _Authorized Personnel Only_. "I wanna see her."

But Maria stops him, pulling back on his straining arms, attempting to turn him to face her. "You can't go in there, Elliot—"

"Well, how long before she's out?" He peers through the little square of glass in the door but sees nothing. Just a single swift-walking nurse dashing down a long blue corridor.

Maria falls silent. So he whips round to face her, sensing an as yet undisclosed blow. Two EMTs come rushing through the outer door, a convulsing patient on their rattling gurney. Maria takes his elbow, pulls him away from the doors, out of their path. She guides him to a row of grey plastic seats, eases down beside him.

"There could be some damage to her liver," she says softly, evenly. "Olivia may need a transplant."

"Transplant?"

"Partial, just a lobe."

"Is that safe? When she's pregnant?" he presses, knowing but not caring that his voice is coming out far more strenuously than is polite.

Maria shrugs a helpless shoulder. "They may not have a choice. But…finding a donor takes time—"

Elliot doesn't even hesitate. He shifts in his seat, sits straighter. "I can donate, we're a match."

She shakes her head, frowns at him. "How can you know that?"

"It's…" he rises and stalks back to the doors, "the sort of thing you know about your partner."

His girlfriend sighs, tired eyes dropping to the linoleum. "They'll still need to check with her family—"

"Liv doesn't have any family."

"Her husband then."

"Her husband's not here—" He turns to face her, clawing at his own chest with two hands, his voice rising in insistence, in desperation, in frustration. " _I'm_ here and I'm a _match_."

Maria blinks a few times, spreads her hands. "Well…I can let them know that."

He nods, plants his hands on his hips. "Now?"

"O-kay," she gets to her feet, brows furrowed, "I'll let them know now…"

Elliot's eyes track her as she walks to the doors and pushes through them with one red-stained hand. When the swift-walking nurse tries to halt her, he watches from behind the glass as Maria talks to her, explaining the situation with what he hopes is the utmost urgency. The nurse nods, flicks her gaze at him then rushes away again. Somewhat satisfied, Elliot retreats to his grey, plastic seat, feet tapping with nervous energy as he sits and waits. While he does, he pulls the black and white picture from his breast pocket, smoothing back the softened, creased edges. He stares at it and stares at it, offering up a silent, sustained prayer. But his prayer is interrupted when someone calls his name.

 _ **TBC...**_


	4. Chapter 3

Rating: T/M, adult themes

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Dick Wolf, NBC etc. Lyrics are all property of Damien Rice. No infringement intended or money made.

Spoilers: Nope

Pairing(s): Elliot/Olivia, Elliot/Other, Olivia/Other

Summary: They both have a fantasy about what it all could be with the other. The sequel to "Cheers Darlin'" and "9 Crimes"...

A/N: If readers listen to any of the songs that inspired this story, I hope it is this one. The lyrics used in the next few chapters are from the exquisitely angsty song "My Favourite Faded Fantasy", from the album of the same name. Once again, thank you for reading and reviewing, it is the only food a writer needs. ;)

* * *

 **iii.**

 _You could be my favorite taste to touch my tongue  
I know someone who could serve me love, but it wouldn't fill me up  
You could have my favorite face and favorite name  
I know someone who could play the part, but it wouldn't be the same  
No, it wouldn't be the same, it wouldn't be the same  
No, it wouldn't be the same…as with you…_

He's calling her name, running towards the crash site. His muscles pump and thighs ache with effort but he doesn't seem to be getting anywhere. He's no closer to where smoke is rising from the bonnet, to where sparks are flying from some undetermined location. He bellows her name but the sound is lost in the roar of the sudden downpour. The heavens open up and he is saturated within a second, the water weighing down his clothes, his limbs, his body as it strives to reach her. The falling rain gets in his eyes and mouth and shoes as he searches, shouts, sprints in and out of the haphazard rows of traffic. He stumbles on a crumbling curb, falls to the ground. He grazes one hand and one knee, rips the fabric of his trousers. But when he looks up from the ground, he's only a few feet away, just a few more cars lie in his path. There are vehicles everywhere, standing stationary, keys in the ignition, engines running, drivers' seats empty. There is a firetruck parked near the crushed car, an ambulance close by. But no firemen, no ambulance officers, no people at all. Just him and the smoke and the sparks and the rain.

He collapses onto the car when he reaches it, lungs wheezing as both hands make contact with the dark blue metal. He yanks open the door to see shattered glass on the seats, blood soaking into the leather. He circles the car, yanking open each door to find nothing and no one – the back seat is as empty as the front. The passenger side door is crumpled inwards, mashed against the scaffolding which creaks above him, threatening to fall. He breaks what's left of the window then peers inside at the twisted metal and mangled seat. There's no sign of her. Apart from her blood. It's only as he is ducking out of the car, turning away in desperation and defeat that a spark flies overhead, lighting up the dull sky and revealing something small and golden glinting amongst the wreckage. He reaches for it, fingers stretching, armpit pressed into the jagged glass. It lies on what's left of the floor, half hiding under the blood-soaked seat. He manages to scissor two fingers over the clasp and pull it out. Olivia's necklace, splattered with blood. Elliot clasps his hand around it then slips it into his pocket.

Running to the half open doors of the ambulance, he flings them back to find the berth empty. He checks the firetruck, several other nearby cars. But finds nothing, just more emptiness. So he turns around, wanders across the desolate street, yells her name into the rain, into the unhearing ether. A voice finally answers and he spins around to see a little girl standing by the crashed car, in the sparks, under the rain. None of which touch her. She speaks again but doesn't call him by name. _Daddy_ , she calls him, in a small high voice. Holding out a hand, she wiggles her fingers in a beckoning gesture and repeats – _Daddy…Daddy, this way_.

Elliot stands, stationary and stumped. The little girl smiles, turning and running under the scaffolding and into an unmarked shopfront. He bolts after her. The inside of the shop is brightly lit by fluorescent tubes. It's an ordinary New York market but it looks like an earthquake has hit it. Produce litters the floors, boxes and cans have capsized on the shelves. Orange juice and flour and cereal have spilt all over the floor. He picks through the rubble, following the shoes or the skirt or the hair or the laugh of the little girl who called him Daddy. He can't get a full glimpse of her like he did on the street, he's just hunting fragments that always remain just out of his reach. Finally, he follows her through a white door at the back of the market then down a darkened staircase.

At the bottom of the stairs is a bedroom filled with warm sunlight and fresh air. Elliot stops in place. The carpet under his shoes feels plush and soothing. A capacious bed sits between two tall windows with white curtains that billow softly inwards. The little girl he followed crawls onto the bed ahead of him, burrowing under the covers. As she does, a figure in the bed lowers a spread newspaper. Olivia tickles the little girl, who giggles and burrows deeper. Then she looks up at him. It's then that Elliot notices that there is a little boy nestled into her side. He's wearing blue pyjamas that match the color of his blue eyes. That match the color of his sister's eyes. That match the color of his own eyes.

Olivia drops the paper she was reading, throws it down the end of the bed. Then she smiles at him and asks if she can have her tea. Looking down, he finds he is carrying a tray. With a mug of coffee, a cup of tea and two little glasses of orange juice. He walks to the bed, feet squelching in his shoes, and lays the tray down on the empty pillow. His daughter emerges from under the covers to claim her juice. Olivia feeds the other glass to her brother. Elliot watches them all as he strips off his wet clothes and crawls into the bed. He is suddenly both exhausted and energized. He sips his coffee, hands Olivia her tea. He watches her smile at him, lips curving upwards and eyes shining as she lifts the cup to her mouth. After she drinks, she curls a hand around his neck, pulls him close and kisses him. She kisses him with a languid tongue and an open mouth and he sighs her name, moans her name. Both their children disappear under the covers in an attempt to escape their unbridled display of affection. He can feel them giggling and squirming around his feet as he slips his arms around the body of the woman he loves. She feels warm and soft in her pyjamas and lying in the bed with her, with their children, with the warmth of the coffee and the bed clothes, his chilled bones and muscles begin to reheat.

They eat pancakes for breakfast, all four of them in the bed. The kids lie on their stomachs at the end of the bed and look at the drawings in the comic section. He and Olivia sit with their backs against the headboard and when he kisses her again, she tastes like maple syrup. He never wants it to end, resists moving from that warm, sunny, glorious place. But his son holds out a hand and tells him it's time to go to school. He leads Elliot out a door, down another flight of stairs, across a street and around a corner. Parents and kids are milling about at the gate, mothers buckling bags, fathers straightening socks, girls running to giggling gaggles of friends and boys climbing the fence around the school grounds. Elliot kneels down in front of his son. He runs a hand over his straight brown hair. He checks that his socks are up, his shoes tied, his bag clipped shut. He tells him to have a good day and his son hugs him, says the same. Elliot watches him run into the school grounds, find some friends and ascend a stairway with them. Once he disappears from sight, Elliot turns on the pavement. He guesses it's time to go to work.

He heads down the street, picks up two coffees on the way. As soon as he enters the squadroom, Cragen leans out his door, beckons to him with one finger. Elliot places the coffees on his desk then shuffles unwillingly into his captain's office. His boss is standing behind his desk, a stern expression on his face. It's time to meet his new partner, he says, and Elliot turns to see a woman standing by the viewing window. Tall and slim with bobbed brown hair. Hands on her hips and a badge on her belt. And Good God, how the hell is he supposed to work with that? How the hell is he meant to get anything done with those eyes, those lips, those breasts sitting across from him? He extends a hand and she shakes it. She smiles when she does and his whole body reacts. What the hell was Cragen thinking? He's in love with her already. He wants her already. He needs her already, as badly as his needs his next breath. Luckily, his new partner seems to sense this, seems to feel the same way. Because she takes his hand and leads him out of Cragen's office, through the bustling squadroom and down some more stairs. She leads him into the crib, to his favorite cot. But instead of lying on the one adjacent, the one she'd usually inhabit, she lies down with him on his cot, both their bodies crammed onto the single bed. Once settled, she guides one of his hands to her belly, flattens his palm against the soft bulge there. Elliot rests his forehead against hers and lets his exhaustion overtake him.

When he wakes he's in a different bed. A blonde woman is carrying a laundry basket while a teenage girl yells at him. About something. He has no idea what. Or who either of them is. He asks the blonde woman where Olivia is. She doesn't hear, she's trying to placate the irate teen. She places the laundry basket down on his bed, revealing that she is pregnant. Heavily pregnant, close to popping. When the teen storms out, he asks the other woman where his children are. She tips her head at him, points past him, to a photo propped against his bedside lamp. In it, he stands outside a church, his arm around the blonde woman and a ring around his finger. They are flanked by four children, three girls and one boy, all blonde. None of them look a thing like him. None of them look a thing like Olivia. He flings off the covers, ignoring the questions and protestations of the blonde woman. He's got to find Liv. He's got to get to her, before it's too late. He stumbles out of the room, down the stairs and out the door. There's a car at the curb, keys in the ignition, engine running. He jumps in it and drives.

He's almost there when he gets the call from Cragen. He can't hear him properly but there's been an accident. Olivia is hurt. Their baby is in danger. He presses the accelerator, hurling the car up onto the pavement. He dodges around all the other cars, stuck in their rows of intractable traffic then pulls up behind the firetruck. Sparks are flying and rain begins to fall. But no one is there. Not a soul in sight. He slides his hand into his pocket, pulls out the gold necklace with the flecks of blood on it. Then he runs under the scaffolding, into the market, down the strewn aisles, through the white door and down the black stairs.

Olivia is there. Just Olivia. Rising from the bed, wearing one of his shirts. The white curtains billow behind her. She walks towards him, undresses him slowly, soothes his frozen skin with her warm touch. She leads him to the bed, lies back and draws him down on top of her. He kisses her, covers her body with his. Then he unbuttons the shirt she wears, mouth venturing down her body. He takes her breasts in his mouth, sucks them, nips at their tips. Her chest fills with air, she breathes beneath him, sighs and moans and says his name. He drags his mouth lower, down her torso to her smooth, flat belly. He kisses her there, palms her with reverence. He glances up at her and she smiles. Then she nods, lifting her hips. Elliot parts her knees, strokes her thighs then licks her with the flat of his tongue. She gasps and he does it again, tasting her, swallowing her. He slides his tongue over her then into her then over her then into her. He sucks her clit, makes her call his name louder. And when her voice hitches, her breath deepening and releasing a lusty laugh, he pulls back onto his knees.

He strokes himself a few times, gazing down at her on the white sheets. She sits up, one hand drifting up his thigh, round to his butt. She grasps him, squeezes him, kisses his belly, his ribcage, his chest as she rises onto her knees, facing him on the bed. Olivia replaces his right hand with hers, pumps him a few times. Then she weaves her left hand with his, their fingers interlocking. His body stalls and brows knit when he feels the metal against his skin, against his palm. He looks down, sees the rings on her finger. She looks down too, then lifts her unwavering gaze to his.

"Take them off," she whispers.

Elliot doesn't move, just waits.

So she repeats the request in a stronger voice. "El. Take them off."

He holds her left hand in his, slides both rings off her fingers and watches them disintegrate into thin air.

Olivia snakes her arms round his neck, whispers, "I love you," then eases him back on the bed. She takes him in hand, places his hard, aching length at her entrance then sinks slowly downward. He slides his palms up her back as she leans over him, a hand pressing into the mattress either side of his head. "I love you," she says again. Elliot clasps her close as she kisses him then begins to move.

Afterwards, they lie naked on the tangled sheets, curtains still silently billowing. He rolls onto his side and she does the same. He traces the scar that runs down the center of her ribcage. She traces the scar that runs down the center of his.

"We match now," she murmurs, fingertips caressing the phantom incision.

Elliot smiles and kisses her again. "We always did."

Then the two of them descend into a deep, sound sleep.

 **-x-**

When he wakes, Maria is sitting by his bed. For a moment he thinks she's Olivia. But only a moment. He blinks a few times, forces his eyes to focus on his surroundings. On the hospital sheets and gown and the sterile hospital hush. He's barely got his bearings when she begins to speak, her voice dull and hard. She tells him that she wanted to make sure he came through the surgery alright. And that now that he has, she doesn't want to see him again. He's too weak, too groggy to react to her far too founded suspicion that he's in love with his partner. Which is probably just as well. It's better for her, definitely.

Pausing on her way to the door, Maria turns and asks if he's the father of Olivia's child.

Elliot tests out his voice, mutters a scratchy, "Yes." Then watches her leave.

 ** _TBC..._**


	5. Chapter 4

Rating: T/M, adult themes

Disclaimer: Please see chapter one

Spoilers: Nada

Pairing(s): Elliot/Olivia, Elliot/Other, Olivia/Other

Summary: They both have a fantasy about what it all could be with the other. Third in my Rice Trilogy.

A/N: I'm really pleased peeps are going off and listening to the songs, not just because they are great songs and very EO but because I have tried to reflect them in how I have written all of the stories in this series. They will hopefully explain a lot - this one in particular since it starts off really dreamy and ethereal before getting all passionate and angsty. Hope you enjoy this music as much as I do and that it gives you juicy EO dreams. ;)

A/N2: Meanwhile, yesterday I got involved in a discussion on tumblr about whether writers should respond to reviews and whether readers should respond to stories. I think I have made my stance on the latter quite clear - you read, you review. This is my little corner of cyberspace so I feel that I get to make the rules on how my many hours of work are consumed and I thank the approximately 1.80-3.80% of readers who have respected that and taken the time to respond to what will end up being a series of over 50,000 words.

That said, I have never been entirely sure whether to respond to reviews on this site. When I was on LJ, I responded to every review without fail - that was just the culture there and it made for a friendly, encouraging community. One writer pointed out yesterday though that on other sites, this might look like "review padding". This site makes it difficult to respond to reviews because they don't appear in a thread, you have to do so via PM. I usually only do this if a reader asks a question, instigates a conversation or is a friend. Mostly, I just don't want to bother people by being all about me-me-me-me-me. I certainly don't want readers to feel their reviews are unwelcome though or that they go unread, so I am more than happy to respond to each review and I invite feedback on this from readers and writers alike.

If you have no opinion on this matter but wanna find me on tumblr, I am mindibindi and my blog is called Love is Everything...and now you may read on! :)

* * *

 **iv.**

 _You could be my favorite place I've ever been  
I got lost in your willingness to dream within the dream  
You could be my favorite faded fantasy  
I've hung my happiness upon what it all could be  
On what it all could be, what it all, what it all could be  
What it all, what it all could be…with you…_

She floats in and out of consciousness in the car. She remembers little, just pain and blood and broken glass. They want to cut her out through the side door but don't want to risk the scaffolding collapsing on everyone and creating further injury and chaos. They discuss taking the roof off the car and lifting her out that way. There are people everywhere – firemen in suits, ambulance officers wearing gloves, looky-loos gawking from the perimeter. Maria is in the car with her, she inserts something into her arm. Through the cracked windscreen she can see Cragen, watching and frowning and pacing, his phone to his ear. She hopes he's calling Elliot, she hopes he's getting him to come to her. She wants Cragen to bring the phone over to her, hold it to her ear. She wants to tell Elliot she loves him. She wants to tell him she's sorry. She wants to tell him….

She doesn't know how they manage to extract her from the car but when she next wakes she's being jostled into the back of the ambulance on a gurney. The pain in her legs is excruciating and her head throbs and her blood is everywhere, leaking from her body in multiple places. But all that fades into insignificance when she feels that familiar sensation in her belly, that pressure between her legs. Everything narrows to just that. Because her babies are coming. Now. She jolts upright with an agonized groan and Maria slots in behind her, propping up her body. The ambulance officer looks panicked as he parts her legs and tells her to push. He tells her when the baby's crowning, when the head is out. He twists to extricate the shoulders then hands her first child to a woman standing just outside the ambulance doors. Olivia only gets a fleeting glimpse but she thinks it's a girl. She hears her cry and slumps in relief.

Her relief is short-lived though because her second child is on the way. She wags her head because she can't. She really can't. Maria and the ambulance officer tell her she can, she must. They talk to her in encouraging, firm tones as she gathers all her energy and resumes pushing. Her little boy arrives as promptly as his sister, screaming almost as soon as he exits the womb. The ambulance officer hands him to Maria who wraps him in a silver blanket before passing him to the woman at the ambulance doors. Olivia falls backwards, immediately overcome with an intense euphoria. Nothing hurts anymore, everything is fine. She just wishes Elliot were there, with her, with their newborn children. The woman holding her babies doesn't allow her to rest though. She tells her to open her eyes, open her eyes. She tells her she must go to him, she must find him and tell him everything. She must tell him she's sorry, she must tell him she loves him. The woman climbs into the ambulance and sits by her side, a silver swaddled baby nestled in each arm. Olivia blinks up at her through her blood and tears, beginning to place the features of the young woman who she's only ever seen in one other place. The case file of her mother's rape.

Serena says she'll take care of the babies. But that she must go. She must go now. Olivia nods and levers slowly to her feet. Her body feels strangely pain free. On the pavement outside, sparks continue to fly and smoke continues to rise and people continue to gawk. But she pushes through the crowds, her body gaining strength with each step. She strides down the pavement, against the flow of foot traffic. She picks up her pace, begins to run when she spots a subway station entrance. She sprints down the stairs, down another flight of stairs then down another. The stairs seem unending but they finally lead to where she wants to be, where she's always wanted to be. The squadroom is deserted. All the computers are off, no phones ring, there isn't even coffee percolating in the jug. And the place is freezing, the heating has ceased to work. She heads for the locker room, weaves in and out of the maze of lockers. Her partner's is open, his black suit lying on the bench nearby. She passes it without stopping, continues on the precinct showers from which she can hear a soft, echoey hiss emanating.

He's standing under the steam and spray, hands running over his head, water running down his back, his ass, his legs. He looks glorious, like a dream, an unfathomable fantasy. Like everything she's ever, ever wanted in all of her life. When he turns, meeting her eyes with an unsurprised smile, she begins to peel off her clothes. He draws her under the warm spray, washes off all the blood and sweat and smoke and tears. He washes between her legs then touches her there while his mouth dips to suck at her breasts. The warm water runs over his face, making his closed eyelashes clump together. She holds his face against her, wanting more of what he's doing, more of him, everything of him. Elliot rises and kisses her, big hands skating down her back to grasp her butt and haul her closer. She smiles into the kiss, bites at his lip. She wants to stay there forever, she wants to make love with him in the shower, under the warm spray where everything feels cosy and hazy and perfect. But Elliot tells her they'll have to postpone such bliss until later. They are already late.

She tries to convince him otherwise with her hands on his body and her mouth open against his. She uses her tongue and her teeth and her voice to coax him into staying and for several incredible moments it works. Elliot can't resist her and she loves that feeling. She loves how he wants her, loves how he loves her. He pushes her against the tile and she doesn't care that it's cold against her back. Because he's warm against her front, his chest pressed to hers, his erection nudging between her legs, one arm encircling her, one hand running from her cheek down her neck, her breast, her side, her waist. When he pulls back from the kiss and looks at her, there are fine lines around his eyes and mouth that she doesn't remember ever seeing before. His hair, what little is left of it, has thinned and greyed. He is still Elliot – he still looks at her with those intense blue eyes that hold so much love, so much fire, so much devotion. His body is as hard and virile as ever but his skin is paler, papery. She nevertheless follows when he takes her hand in his weathered one and leads her out of the shower, leaving the water still running, the steam still rising.

He leads her into a bedroom, their bedroom, where two suits are laid out on the bed. One black and one blue. He dresses in the black one while she dresses in the blue. It's only when she steps up to the mirror that she notices the lines around her own eyes, the creases about her jaw. There are specks of grey in her hair and spots of brown on her hands. It would startle her except that Elliot draws in close behind her, wraps his arms around her softer, stouter body, whispers in her ear how beautiful she is. She looks at him in the mirror, at them, at their older selves standing in a loose embrace. She watches as he lifts a golden necklace from a bureau and fastens it around her neck. She returns the favor by making him sit at the mirror while she knots his bowtie. Then Elliot guides her out the door, one hand resting low on her back.

They attend their daughter's graduation first, watch her throw her tasseled cap into a perfectly cloudless sky. Then they attend their son's wedding, watching with hands held as he kisses his bride. The reception is held on a cliff overlooking the sea as the sun sets. They've aged further throughout the beautiful, long day but can't resist dancing together. Their bones creak and their muscles are weary so it's more of a swaying embrace than an actual dance. Other shadowy figures waltz about them. Their son with his wife. Their daughter with her children. But their focus is narrow, fixed exclusively on each other. Her hand drifts up and down his spine as they sway to the music, to the crash of waves on the rocks below. Olivia thought their shower tryst was perfect but this is so much more so. This, she doesn't want to leave, not ever. Not ever. Not even when her husband lifts his hand from her side and shows her the blood leaking from her body. She shakes her head and rests her throbbing temple on the shoulder of his black jacket. She can feel the pain there, can feel it everywhere. She can feel the blood seeping out through her clothes, sliding down her body, down one leg, over her shoes, onto the dance floor, up into Elliot's shoes. But she still doesn't want to budge.

He insists, pulling on her hand as she shakes her head again, feet clinging to their spot on the dance floor. Her eyelids are drifting weakly closed and open and her throat appears unable to expel words. But he tugs her away from the ragged cliffside, from the crashing sea beneath, leads her to an already running car. His phone rings just as they are leaving but he doesn't take the call. This time, Elliot doesn't take the call. He just wraps a hand around hers and holds it tight as they drive to the hospital. He holds her hand as they wheel her on a gurney, crashing through the doors marked _Authorized Personnel Only_. He holds it as she screams with pain, as she loses and regains consciousness. She knows the rings on her left hand, the rings that he put there so many years ago, are digging into his hand. But she doesn't want him to take them off. Those rings aren't leaving her hand until she leaves this world. Which might happen any minute. She knows that, she knows this might be it. The end. So she recalls her mother's words, the words she wrote in her letter, the words she told her in that ambulance.

It doesn't matter anymore what she did wrong or what he did wrong, all the misunderstanding and missed opportunities. All that wasted time. It doesn't matter if she apologizes. All that matters is that she tells him. One essential thing, before it's too late. So when she drifts back toward consciousness, she grasps for his hand, finds it still in hers. Her eyes slide open, meeting his as she whispers desperately, simply, utterly unreservedly—

"I love you, I love you, I love you…"

Elliot smiles, tears in his old, blue eyes, then opens his mouth to answer. But before he can, she loses consciousness and, this time, doesn't regain it.

 **-x-**

When she wakes, Elliot is sitting by her bed. Parked stubbornly on the edges of the low lamplight, he's flicking through a magazine as if nothing at all has happened. He looks completely normal, completely fine. Except that he wears a blue hospital gown and robe and an IV pole stands by his chair, a tube running into his arm. She turns her head on the pillow and he instantly looks up. Then smiles. She smiles back. She is insanely pleased to see him. So happy to be looking at him, talking to him. If feels like years since she has. He shifts a little closer in his seat then winces at the movement. She looks him over worriedly.

"What're you doing here?" she croaks. She's pretty sure he should be in a bed somewhere, not moving about and busting his stitches.

Elliot shrugs a little. "Disobeying nurse's orders."

"Same as usual then," she mutters with a frown.

"I…wanted to be here when you woke up," he says, taking in a breath then very gingerly leaning forward, "I wanted to make sure you knew right away that everyone's fine. You, me," he points to her stomach, "…lil Blotchy."

She smiles and sighs. Her eyes close over and her whole body relaxes in the bed. "Thank you…" she whispers, opening her eyes and looking at him.

She reaches for his hand, squeezes it so he knows that she isn't just thanking him for his presence at her bedside, for delivering such incredible news. She's thanking him for what he did, what he risked. For saving her, for saving them both. She's thanking him for that little part of his body that now resides in hers.

"Well," Elliot shrugs again, the small smile still curving his lips, "...that's what partners are for." He squeezes her hand in return, adds in a lower voice, "I'm sure you'd do the same."

"Mm…maybe," she muses groggily. "…Probably," she amends at his lifted-brow look.

He grunts softly as he gets to his feet. "Tell you what…"

She adjusts her head on the pillow, blinking up at him. "What?"

He leans down to kiss her cheek. "You owe me one hell of a Christmas present this year."

She laughs quietly then halts herself, groaning in pain. Elliot squeezes her hand, tells her to rest then shuffles out the door with his IV pole. Olivia watches him go, eyelids heavy and heart full.

 _ **TBC...**_


	6. Chapter 5

Rating: T/M, adult themes

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Dick Wolf, NBC etc. All lyrics are property of Damien Rice. No infringement intended on either or any money made.

Spoilers: Nada

Pairing(s): Elliot/Olivia, Elliot/Other, Olivia/Other

Summary: They both have a fantasy about what it all could be with the other. The sequel to "Cheers Darlin'" and "9 Crimes" and the final installment in my Rice Trilogy.

A/N: Apologies for the delay in updating, had to go have a minor mental meltdown. But now that that is done, I want to thank the readers, cmeo, PaperFrames and NobodyofSignificance amongst others who let me know that Mariska posted an Instagram photo from a Damien Rice concert a few days ago with the hashtag #myfavouritefadedfantasy. That was too cool, too weird, too well-timed and if you haven't seen it and want to, you can head over to my tumblr blog to take a look. Alternatively, you can just keep on reading... :)

* * *

 **v.**

 _You could hold the secrets that save me from myself  
I could love you more than love could, all the way from hell  
You could be my poison, my cross, my razor blade  
I could love you more than life if I wasn't so afraid  
Of what it all could be, what it all, what it all could be  
Of what it all, what it all could be…with you…_

Olivia is released three days after he is. When she asks him to pick her up from the hospital and drive her home, Elliot doesn't ask any questions. He just agrees. Pulling up at the brownstone, they see her kids waiting on the stoop. The twins stand with Sophie Senior, looking grave and holding hand-drawn cards. Little Sophie bobs about on the steps, dressed in miniature red overalls with scuffed knees. Elliot strides round the car to open the door and offer an arm for Olivia to lean on. There's a long thin gash slicing across one of her eyebrows and one of her wrists remains tightly bandaged. She moves slowly, carefully, as if beneath her clothes, every part of her is black and blue. As the two of them gingerly begin to ascend the steps, Sophie Senior reminds Olivia's youngest not to jump all over mommy.

Olivia glances over her shoulder as she heads down the brownstone's long corridor with her boys. "Don't jump on Ellot either."

It's a warning Sophie heeds for all of two minutes. As soon as Elliot takes a seat, Olivia's daughter is in his lap, asking unending questions, limbs fidgeting and fingers investigating his clothes.

"Where is your badge, Ellot?"

"At home."

"Why?"

"Because I only wear it when I'm working."

"Why?"

"Because it shows I am a cop."

"Your ears are funny."

"Thanks."

"Do you like cookies?"

"Sure."

"I helped Granma make some. You can—" Sophie scrambles off his lap, grabs a heart-shaped cookie off the plate her grandmother is about to offer then dives back into his lap, making him groan. "Have one—!"

"Soph—" Olivia starts to say.

But Elliot holds up a hand. "S'okay. Think I can handle it…"

She smiles and resumes reading the cards her sons have made for her. In the armchair opposite, Elliot lifts Sophie, positions her more comfortably in his lap and tries to ignore the looks he's getting from both his partner and her mother-in-law. Sophie Senior hands him a cup of coffee with a dim glare that's no doubt related to Olivia's barely hidden smile. Although little Sophie's chirpy interrogation skills leave him with little attention to pay either response.

"Can I touch your hair?" she asks as he bites into his rock-hard cookie.

Elliot lowers his head. "Yep."

"…Spikey," she comments, patting his pate.

He glances at Olivia who smiles into her teacup. The two boys flanking her all but ignore his presence as Graham's mother hovers in the background, watching and glaring and disapproving. Elliot shifts against the cushions and concentrates on entertaining Olivia's entertaining daughter. The strange mix of perfunctory hospitality and seething tension becomes the backdrop to most of the visits he pays his partner during her recuperation. Olivia's twins remain standoffish with him. Sophie Senior watches everyone and everything like a territorial hawk. And Sophie Junior exudes a boundless supply of energy and enquiries. If not for her – and for the baby growing in his partner's belly – he wouldn't return, wouldn't feel comfortable. But each time Elliot heads for the door, Sophie trots by his side, looking up at him with her dark brown eyes and asking, "Where are you going, Ellot?" or "Ellot, will you come back, Ellot?"

The truth is, he's got nowhere to be, nothing he needs to do. Maria is gone. And he and Olivia won't return to work for another month. He spends a little more time at the gym, a little more time in bed. But his dreams are haunted by random, highly-charged images from his anesthesia induced fantasies. He dreams of finding her bloody necklace amongst the twisted wreckage, of securing the clasp around her neck, placing it back on her chest where it belongs. He dreams of holding her in his arms – where she's never belonged – not tightly but loosely. As if she maybe did belong there, as if she'd always belonged there, would always remain there and he knew that. He dreams of looking at the two of them in an unfamiliar mirror, their faces lined with age. He dreams of her pained screams and her grasping hand and of her eyes finally giving up and closing over. He invariably wakes in a panic, wanting to assure himself of her safety, of their child's safety. He'd like to just roll over and see them both there in the bed with him, like they would've been in his fantasy existence. But instead, he has to drive out to Brooklyn and endure her mother-in-law's lurking presence.

Sometimes he lucks out and Graham's mother isn't there. If he arrives early enough, he might find Olivia in her pyjamas, alone with her kids. Or he might find her all alone, her hair mussed and her eyes droopy. They might share a cup of their preferred hot beverage in companionable silence, him in jeans and a sweater, her in pyjamas and a robe. One morning, as they slowly, simultaneously sip, Olivia looks across at him, her slippered feet propped on the coffee table. She smiles as she tells him to enjoy the peace and quiet while he can because in a few months' time, it'll be a distant memory.

Elliot nods, breathes in then props his own feet on her coffee table. "I know..."

Even her baggy pyjamas can't disguise the fact that she's well and truly showing, her belly popping out, her body growing rounder and her face fuller. The gash on her forehead is healing and her wrist is no longer bandaged. Her doctors keep a close eye on her after the accident and operation but her pregnancy seems to be progressing normally. After another sonogram, Elliot obtains an updated picture, one that clearly shows a waving hand and two little legs. In the car, on the way home, they tentatively begin to discuss the remainder of the pregnancy, options for the birth and what might occur afterwards. Various vague phrases and cautious metaphors are expended. But at least they are talking. At least the silence has broken. Maria's departure is covered with two lines, both of them impersonal clichés. But an explanation of Graham's conspicuous absence isn't offered until Olivia is forced to provide one.

 **-x-**

He's sitting on the family couch, being read a book backwards by Sophie, when Olivia's husband finally shows up. His boys are parked on a mat, dually focused on transforming a pile of Lego into an alien spaceship of unconscionable size. Olivia is in the kitchen making fresh mugs of tea and coffee. Graham enters without knocking, strolling down the corridor and into the living room with a tall blonde at his side. Sophie immediately vaults off Elliot's lap and flings herself at her father. Elliot stands up from the couch, receding into the background. Graham gives him a cold, silent nod, which he returns. The blonde woman at his side gives Olivia, her bulging belly and striped pink pyjamas a brief onceover. Frankie and Charlie clamber to their feet, greeting their father with more enthusiasm than Elliot has ever witnessed them display in their short lives.

Graham tells them to pack up their Lego and they instantly obey. Sophie steals the half-read book from Elliot's hand and stuffs it into one of the bags Olivia has pre-prepared. There are several moments of chaotic organization during which Elliot simply stands to one side while Graham's blonde looks bored. Footsteps echo down the hall, Sophie's voice squeals. Olivia reminds Graham about the twins' asthma medication. Graham tells the kids to kiss mommy bye-bye. Then the front door slams and the house falls silent. Returning to the living room, Olivia drops down onto the couch with a deep sigh. Elliot remains standing, half backed into a corner. He grits his jaw and points after her husband, after the woman he heard Sophie call by name.

"Who's _Isabella_?" he demands, unconcerned with censoring his thoughts or tone.

Olivia runs a hand through her unbrushed hair. "She's Graham's girlfriend."

"Graham has a girlfriend." He steps closer, stands in front of her and dares her to look up at him. "What the hell's going on…?"

She draws in a breath, holds it, then admits, "Graham and I separated."

"When?" he grunts the second the truth falls from her lips.

"The night I got the paternity results." She rubs her nude, red-rimmed eyes before looking up at him. "It was only meant to be a trial separation but…Graham fell in love with someone else."

Elliot nods a few times, staring down at her.

Her gaze falters and voice stammers as she adds, "I was going to tell you—"

"When?" he grunts again.

She stands, faces him. "When I was ready." Then heads for the kitchen.

Elliot follows, accepts the mug of coffee she hands him.

"I've already contacted a divorce lawyer," she murmurs as she pours her tea.

Leaning back against the kitchen counter, Elliot watches her add a splash of milk to the cup. "Well. I'm not going to say I'm sorry…" he says after a moment, voice low and begrudging. "You know I think you're better off."

"El…" She turns to him, mug cradled in both hands.

His brows lift. "What?"

She looks down, rotates the mug in her hands then replies, "I don't think what he did is any worse than what we did. Do you?"

"It's different," he mutters, brows furrowing and eyes narrowing. "You know it's different."

"How?" she asks, voice both soft and steely. "How is it different?"

She turns away before he can give her an answer. He doesn't think she really wanted one. Not the one he wants to give, the one he's dying to give. He'd like to have told her that, with them, love was involved. And not just any love either. A great love. An unstoppable love. A love destined from the beginning. He's not sure she'd agree with him though. And maybe one revelation per morning is enough.

For now.

 **-x-**

Elliot steps into the tattoo parlor, lets the door squeak shut behind him. He's finally found a project to fill his empty days. Until work goes back. Until the baby is born. Until he figures out what his life is going to look like in the near future. He's sick of inventing fantasies, is willing to let them fade. He's now interested in creating a reality to be proud of, one to look forward to. He's interested in making something tangible, something truthful.

There's a woman sitting on a low stool with intricate sleeves inked down both her arms and little red specs propped on her nose. She asks if she can help him but Elliot shakes his head and continues browsing the designs covering the parlor walls. It's the third place he's visited that day, the eighth all up. He knows what he's looking for. Or, at least, he'll know it when he sees it— and then he does.

He never really connected with the images or tales of Christ that pervaded his childhood. He always associated them with his father's way of thinking, his strict moral code and unforgiving dedication to the concepts of shame, guilt and self-punishment. Bernie had a lighter way, a more rebellious way, a more arbitrary and impulsive life philosophy. Both approaches stayed with him, as deeply ingrained parental aftereffects. It might be some lingering nostalgia, some latent connection with his father when he's about to become a father, that makes him to draw close to a placard of sketches with strong religious iconography. One in particular draws his attention.

It doesn't depict the death of Christ, his celebrated sacrifice, his violent execution. He sees enough death and violence in his work so he's definitely not seeking more of it. And he doesn't feel like he is sacrificing anything. He feels like he is right on the cusp of receiving everything. Which is maybe why the image of Jesus with his arms outspread, his heart open, his spine tall, chin raised and eyes uplifted appeals to him. It reminds him of the Art Deco statue in Rio, the one his mother once showed him a picture of. More because she admired its aesthetic attributes than its religious significance.

Elliot points a finger at the design then turns to the bespectacled, tattooed woman. She scoots closer on her stool, tells him that that one might take time, it might take several visits. Elliot rolls up his sleeve and tells her that's fine.

 **-x-**

Olivia keeps shifting in her seat. This way and that, curling and uncurling her long legs. Every time he offers to go get her a tea or a water or a snack, she insists on going instead, bringing him back coffee or gum or a sweet, stale donut. He starts offering to go get her things just so she'll get out of the car and stroll down the street to the Bodega. With every journey she takes, she prolongs the return trip, pacing outside the Bodega for several minutes or lingering outside the car door, conversing with Fin on her phone. Clearly, she'd rather endure the exterior chill than sit still for even short amount of time.

It's a problem that's worsened in the weeks since they returned to work. They met with Cragen during their leave, filled him in on their situation, on their impending co-parenthood. Their boss received the news with his usual understated aplomb. He said he'd keep them together until he could make other arrangements, especially since both of them would only be returning to limited duty and Olivia for just two short months. Usually, being desk-bound would drive them both bonkers. Usually, with such limitations placed on their movements, they'd end up driving each other bonkers. But their focus has shifted, away from the job and onto something else, something more important. Neither of them has much minded the reams of paperwork or the menial phone calls or being eternally at the beck and call of the mercurial team of Munch and Fin. The only time they've been allowed out in the field is on low stakes cases when they're not the primary detectives. Which is what has had them slumped in a sedan for four and a half hours, watching a door that refuses to open.

Elliot glances sideways as Olivia shifts again in her seat. She gives her lower back a furtive rub, draws in a breath and releases it. She looks even more uncomfortable than she did stationed at her desk. He'd suggest that she crawl into the backseat and lie down for a few minutes but he knows she'd never allow that. Her work ethic is too strong. Her commitment to the job, to his safety. She won't shirk either duty just because she's growing a human on the side.

He waves a hand anyway, gesturing to the cramped seat and saying in a light, inciting tone, "Just put the seat back, Liv, you know you want to."

She shakes her head, eyes fixed on the resolutely closed door. "I'm fine."

"Come on," he glances her way, gives a little wink as her eyes cut to his, "I'm not gonna tell."

One brow arches. "I'm fine—"

"You're human," he interjects, leaning across her body, over her belly. "And pregnant. So just…" His hand closes around the lever and pulls. The seat lowers partway but then snags, his hand losing its grip.

It leaves his body half draped over hers, his face inches from hers, his breath mingling with hers in the muggy humidity from the car's ancient heating vents. Elliot smiles and doesn't immediately withdraw. He knows he should, knows he should re-find his grip on the lever, finish the job of reclining the seat and making her comfortable. Or he should pull away quickly and completely, get them out of the compromising situation he's put them in. In their past existence as partners, he'd never have let such a situation arise. Or, if he did, he'd never have lingered like he's doing. Purposefully. Pleasurably. Enjoying the opportunity he's unwittingly created. He'd never have let his eyes meet hers or let his gaze trail down to her parted lips, her swollen breasts. He'd never have opened his mouth and let his breath fall into the open v of her shirt. He'd never have let the pull of such unexpected proximity between them just…be. Not then, not in their past lives. They're in a whole new life now though. A fledgling new reality. Unfortunately, even in this reality, they still have work to do, a duty to uphold.

So Olivia places a hand on his chest, murmuring quietly, "El. One of us should keep an eye on—"

Elliot leans back in his seat. "Yeah, I got it—" His eyes are the last thing to withdraw, turning back on the uneventful residence Munch and Fin have assigned them to.

The radio hisses and he snatches it up, gives a status update. Olivia adjusts her seat, lowering it a little more but making sure she can still see the residence from her reclined position. Munch gives them a few more details on their suspect, one Mark Winterbaum, then leaves them to their surveillance.

"Mark," Elliot remarks after a protracted period of silence. "That's a nice name..."

Olivia's head lolls toward him on the headrest. "Are you serious? You wanna name our kid after the suspect?"

He shrugs. "No, just sayin'…."

"Anyway," she mutters, stretching her legs out with a sigh, "I dated a Mark once."

His eyes widen. "When?"

"When I was thirteen."

"Jeez…" he chuckles mordantly, throws a stick of gum in his mouth. "Terrorizing the menfolk from an early age, were we?"

"I never terrorized anyone in my life."

He humphs and checks the door. "That's what you say…"

A man walks down the footpath at a brisk pace. He's the right height and build with the right coloring. But he passes by the suspect's door, entering the adjacent one instead. They both relax in their seats. Outside, the traffic continues to flow and wind continues to blow.

"Jacob," Elliot suggests, brows raised.

"No bible names," Olivia replies with predetermined certainty.

"Is that a rule?"

"It's my rule." She glances at him. "No sports stars either."

"Or foods."

"Deal." Olivia adjusts herself on the tilted seat, turning her body toward him. "And why're you only suggesting boy's names anyway?"

He smiles down at her. "You think it's a girl?"

She folds an elbow under her cheek. "We don't know, El, but it could be."

"Well, then…" he shrugs and glances out the windshield, "we name her Liv Junior, right?"

She laughs, eyes closing and head shaking.

"Olivia the Second?" he adds, seeking more of the same reaction.

"Don't make me laugh," she mutters, shooting him an amused glare, "I'm still pissed at you for knockin' me up."

"Yeah, well…" his eyes drift down to her stomach and voice lowers as he answers, "Takes two…"

Olivia smiles softly then glances downwards, eyelids fluttering. "Someone agrees with you." She smooths a hand over her belly then takes his hand, presses his palm to the taut skin. "Here. Feel—…feel that?"

"Whoa—" He releases a startled laugh at the quick, faint movement emerging from within. "Kid can pack a punch," he murmurs, not removing his hand from her belly. "Not sure who she takes after more..."

"Or he," Olivia adds, not removing her hand from his.

The radio shrieks again and Munch's voice intervenes. He tells them that Mark Winterbaum has just been apprehended trying to break into his girlfriend's place. He tells them they can return to the house and that a round of coffees wouldn't go astray. Elliot mutters _copy_ into the receiver, adds _go to hell, we're not a delivery service,_ then puts the car in gear. Olivia rights her seat and buckles her belt, casting him a small smile as he pulls away from the curb.

 ** _TBC..._**


	7. Chapter 6

Rating: M, sexiness

Disclaimer: Please see chapter one

Spoilers: Nada

Pairing(s): Elliot/Olivia, Elliot/Other, Olivia/Other

Summary: They both have a fantasy about what it all could be with the other.

A/N: So, there are a lot of metafictional elements to this story. Some are obvious - like the fact that Olivia's AU husband is a lawyer, the role Mariska's RL husband plays on the show. Others are more obscure - like that one of her sons is named after her sort-of son on the show (Charlie Tahan, who also plays Chris Meloni's son in "Nights in Rodanthe"). Graham's girlfriend is also named after the actress who played Elliot's wife and Elliot's Olivia-like girlfriend is named Maria, of which Mariska is a derivative. It's also the name of the wife of Olivia's other significant partner (since we're in the business of mixing up realities here). I wanted to point this out because there are two big meta moments coming up (one in this chapter and one in the next) and I want everyone to spot them and enjoy them. Please read on...

A/N2: This one goes out to cmeo ;)

* * *

 **vi.**

 _Love dissolved the bloom  
Always watch it—  
Never let someone go or they—  
I ain't ever loved like you  
I have never loved, I have never loved  
I have never loved another like you…_

Olivia faces herself in the mirror. Turning sideways, she runs both hands over her baby bump. The movement makes her rings glint in the early morning sunlight. She lifts her left hand in front of her, examines it with a slight wince. Her hands have swelled with the pregnancy and the bands Graham gave her are starting to strangle the blood supply. She twists them, adjusts them on her finger, but doesn't take them off. Not yet.

The brownstone is cavernously quiet without him, without the kids. Her phone trills though, interrupting the encroaching loneliness. Her partner's tinny voice tells her he hit some traffic on the way over but he'll be there to pick her up within minutes. As she murmurs a reply into the phone, she looks up, sees her mirror image smiling. She's been doing more of that lately. Especially around her partner. Who is more than her partner now. Much more than just a man who occasionally causes her to conceal a smirk. He's now the man in her life who consistently makes her smile. It's a nice change. Subtle. Yet enormous.

Elliot smiles when she opens the car door, easing into the seat with her added girth and weight. He adjusts the heat vents, makes sure she's warm then pulls out into the traffic with care. He's aware that she's slightly skittish in cars now, especially when in the passenger seat or if there's heavy traffic, which in New York is always. At one point during the trip, she glances about at the impatient cars and trucks and vans zipping and honking about them. Olivia grips her seat with one hand, takes several slow deep breaths. Elliot smiles her way, presses the brake and asks if she's starting without him.

He insisted on taking part in the birthing classes, despite the potential they both foresaw for awkward moments and questions. When they arrive – late for both the session and the program – several couples are already breathing deeply on mats. All the couples seem to know each other from previous sessions they missed. During the introductions, Olivia is relieved to see a diverse mix of relationships present, amongst which their strange arrangement may appear a little less so. Apart from the typical marrieds, there's a de facto couple, a same-sex couple, a single mother with her best friend and an older couple with a surrogate. When the facilitator of the session asks them to introduce themselves, they do. But when she asks them to define their relationship, Olivia looks at Elliot who stares blankly back.

"Friends," they eventually reply in stumbling unison. "…Friends."

It's not so much a lie as an evasion, an underestimation. They've always been more than a simple word could describe. Partners was the word they usually applied to their relationship. _Partners,_ they'd say with habitual ease and an underlying connotation. _Partners_ , they'd respond to any and all enquiries, with full knowledge of their complicity in a lie. For even that left things out, ignored certain significant elements. Even that didn't fit – especially not now, if it ever did. In the past, they would simply ignore the gap between their felt experience and what words could express, pinpoint, illuminate or obscure. Such ignorance was easy to maintain with their overflowing lifestyle, their early starts and late nights. Their professional duties and loyalties. Their forced togetherness, always adequately countered by his active sex life, her dedicated family life.

In the absence of these pervasive pressures of the past though, a space has opened up. Small, at first. Now, gaping. In her family's absence, her husband's. In his girlfriend's withdrawal. In the temporary halt in their usually frantic work schedule. In the breath each has taken, knowing they'd soon usher a new being into the world. In the aftermath of her trauma, his gift and an intoxicatingly real flight into fantasy land, something has shifted – altered then opened. And having opened up, Olivia has a deep-seated sense that whatever it is that's been growing inside her – inside both of them – won't ever be able to be locked up or bolted down again.

 **-x-**

She has the dream again, wakes to her body's reaction. Rolling over, she stretches an arm out, over to the empty, cold side of the bed. Olivia opens her eyes. Then closes them again.

It's always the same. She's in a white room, wearing a white, man's shirt. Elliot's shirt. There's a bed with white sheets but no other furniture. White curtains billow from tall windows. He enters, looking gorgeous and horrific. Raw and terrified. Almost magnificent in his torment. She goes to him, comforts him, undresses him, kisses him, leads him to the bed.

She invariably wakes before he can enter her, before she can remember that feeling, relive that thrill. His mouth is always on her – pleasuring her, consuming her, taunting her, propelling her to unreachable heights – when she wakes up. Often when she returns to consciousness, her inner walls are clutching at a phantom sensation, her hands gripping the sheets, her neck arching on the pillow. She's never come in her sleep before, never come without someone touching her body.

Sitting upright in the empty bed, Olivia runs a hand through her disheveled hair. The fun part of her pregnancy has clearly begun. The part where all she craves is olives and chocolate and sex. She lifts up her pyjama top, runs a hand over her bump in good morning. Then she lifts it higher, tracing the scar that runs down the middle of her torso before diverting diagonally right. The other day, she saw the matching, healing incision in Elliot's body. She'd entered the locker room as he was changing, just as he was lifting his t-shirt. And there it was. Somehow, it made it more real, more tangible. What he'd given her, what she'd received from him. She'd wanted to go to him, right then and there. Touch him like she did in her dream, soothe his skin, trace that scar, thank his body for its sacrifice.

She didn't. Which is probably why she had the dream again. Probably why she will continue having it until her hormones decide to give it a rest. And probably why her cheeks will flush slightly when she greets him that morning. Olivia lowers her pyjama top, flings the covers off with a sigh and plants her feet on the floor. It's her last day of work before taking maternity leave. It's the last time she'll have to face her partner after dreaming about him, after orgasming in response to a mirage of him that her fevered mind dreamed up. This will no doubt save her future embarrassment. But she still approaches the day with dread. Because it may be the last day that she and Elliot ever call each other by that deeply cherished and highly deceptive word. Partner. Cragen is arranging a replacement partner for Elliot – a replacement who will occupy her seat and use her desk and face him across it every day, every night. Meanwhile, she and Elliot will move into a new phase, an utterly undefined terrain that neither of them ever intended to enter with the other.

 **-x-**

She's barely seen him all day. She's been taking care of the phones and files and financials while he does all the footwork. They stay in touch and share a brief lunch. But then Elliot heads out again, following up on another batch of leads. At the end of the day, she calls his cell and suggests a drink. They haven't done their traditional Friday night drinks in months. Everything's been too tentative, too ambiguous. They are on more solid ground now though. And since falling pregnant, alcohol has become a completely unviable option for her. She knows the risks too well. So she thinks she's probably strong enough to sit in a bar with him, to watch him down a beer while she lifts a glass of sparkling water in a final salute to their partnership. When she suggests this though, Elliot tells her he has a personal errand to run. He doesn't tell her what it is and briefly she wonders whether his errand is a woman. Whether she's a new girlfriend or merely a random, meaningless conquest.

Olivia banishes the thought, focusing back on her work. She's still pouring over the financial records of Fin's latest suspect when Elliot calls back. He tells her she should have clocked off hours before. Then he tells her he needs a particular file. He asks her to bring it over to his place, says he'll make it worth her while. Then he hangs up. Olivia rises from her chair, packs the last of her belongings into a box, adds the file Elliot requested then, with a momentary backward glance, she heads out of the squadroom. Maybe after he looks over the case file they can go out for a bite, celebrate that way. Her stomach grumbles happily at the thought of the Chinese restaurant in Elliot's neighborhood. Those dumplings they do. And that hot and sour soup. Something deeper within her also grumbles happily, hungrily at the thought of seeing her partner, spending time with him outside of work.

When Elliot opens his apartment door, the jacket and tie he was wearing earlier are gone. He's dressed in just black pants and a white shirt. The shirt is untucked and rumpled, the sleeves unbuttoned, hanging loosely at his wrists. And something about his expression is exhilarated, his eyes lit and eager. He grabs her arm when he sees her, pulls her inside the apartment.

"Hey—"

"Hey…" She scans the place for any lingering signs of a rendezvous as she enters. Then turns to him, holding up the file. "You needed this?"

He takes the file, slaps it down on the coffee table. "Nope. Just needed to get you here."

Olivia grimaces slightly. "You realize I'm heavily pregnant and your elevator is out?"

Elliot lifts his brows and starts unbuttoning his shirt. "Had to show you something. Something I've been workin' on awhile."

She takes a step back even as her eyes drop to the skin he's revealing. "What're you doing?"

He shrugs the shirt off his shoulders, lets the material drop to the bend of his elbows. Then he turns his right shoulder toward her, shows her the white gauze plastered in place. "I just got it finished. Take a look."

When she just stands and stares at him, Elliot nods his head in silent encouragement. So she steps closer, carefully peeling back the patch of gauze. Underneath is an intricate work of art, inked into his skin, spanning almost his entire upper arm.

Her hands grasp his newly tattooed limb and her face ducks in closer, "El…? What the hell—?"

"Don't touch it," he warns as her fingers edge close to the inflamed border, "it's still tender."

She looks up at him with wide eyes. "Wh—? You're not even religious."

"I was raised Catholic," he says, holding her gaze. "But this isn't about religion."

Olivia blinks at him, mouth going dry. "Then what is it about?"

"Commitment," he answers unwaveringly. His voice softens in volume and timbre as he adds, "My commitment. To you." He glances down at her belly, "To both of you."

She blinks again, swallows, releases a large breath. Then she stands upright, pulls the gauze the rest of the way off and examines the tattoo more carefully. It's really very beautiful. Sensitive and strong. Every line replete with integrity and passion and devotion. Just like her partner. She strokes the reddened skin on either side of the design with a whisper-soft touch. Then leans in to plant a soft kiss just above Christ's head. Another below his feet. Then one on either side of his outstretched arms. Rising again, she looks Elliot in the eye. Seeing exactly what she wants to see, she begins moving, slowly stepping around him, her body, her belly, her clothes grazing his. One hand drifts down his tattooed arm, the other across his back, down around his butt and up over his shoulders. She presses herself into his back, slips her arms around his body, in between his arms and torso. She lays her cheek against one bare shoulder blade, feels the fresh scar on his ribs as her palms splay out, pressing themselves into his body. Planting a row of slow kisses down his spine, she unbuttons his shirt the rest of the way, pulls it off his arms. Then she lifts onto her toes, kisses his neck, the short hair at the base of his skull.

Olivia bites his earlobe before whispering in his ear, "I want to make love." Her hands re-splay, one sliding up, pressing flat against his expanding chest, another moving lower, pressing just above the low waist of his pants. She kisses his neck again, murmurs breathily, "You in?"

Elliot turns round, cups her face and kisses her without an iota of hesitation or restraint. "I am _in_ ," he answers when he pulls back. His other hand cups her belly. "I am…" he smiles at her, moves in for another kiss, "God, I'm _so_ in."

He lifts her arms over her head as he kisses her, breaking the kiss long enough to shove her sweater and top up and off in one impatient move. His eyes glint, both dark and light, as he rids her of her bra as well. The way he looks at her bare body has her wet in seconds. God – he's wanted this like she has, she can see it in his eyes. The way his gaze rakes over her, over her bare, swollen breasts, her firm, protruding belly. He bends to kiss both, starting with her neck, her already flushed chest before venturing lower. His lips around her overly-sensitive nipples provide a pleasure she has never in all her days known. She grasps his head with both hands, encourages him to suck, nip, nibble her harder. She wants everything he's got, just everything, _everything more_. She probably murmurs something to this effect, something vaguely intelligible because Elliot intensifies his efforts, paying fierce, amorous attention to both breasts as his hands smooth over her belly then slip down between her thighs.

Her body finally gives in to the truth, the intensity of its desires, backing to his couch, just like it did the first time. Only quicker, this time. With far more desperation and much less doubt. As she lowers herself to the cushions, Elliot continues sucking her breasts, drawing out her nipples, making them hard and peaked and pink. Kneeling between her open legs, his hands immediately become intent on ridding her lower body of all clothing. Olivia scoots to the edge of the couch, hands roving endlessly, fervently over every muscle, bone and blemish before dropping to open his pants. The very moment it's possible, the same moment that their clothes no longer present any obstacle, she draws him closer, positions him at her entrance. She lies back as he enters her, feels his palms slide up her thighs as he presses deeper. She lets out a long, low groan then allows her knees to drop open. Elliot grabs hold of her hips and begins moving right away. Her moans accelerate, continuous and blissful. Her eyes roll back in her head and her breath begins to pant out of her with each firm thrust. Elliot keeps pumping inside her, steady and hard and deep, hands sliding from her hips to her thighs to her waist to her breasts to her bump.

When she's close, he tells her to look at him, urges her to open her eyes with a ragged voice. Olivia's eyes crack open and she sees him, knelt between her spread legs, hands gripping her tight, hips thrusting smoothly, eyes glinting with dark and light, brow creased and shining with sweat. His jaw is set and his shoulders tense and she can tell he is almost as close as she is. She clenches her walls about him, squeezes him lovingly tight within her. Once, twice, three times. Elliot throws back his head, grits her name and comes along with her. Then he slumps over her, her baby bump protected and surrounded by their sweaty, spent bodies.

 **-x-**

They experimented with several positions that first night, figuring out how to work around her pregnant stomach, how to maximize her pleasure and quench her seemingly inexhaustible libido. Elliot was more than happy to perform his role in these experiments. When in the kitchen, he simply spread her legs, lifted his white shirt above her hips and entered her from behind. Olivia grasped the counter with both hands and begged him to never, ever, ever stop. The position offered a bittersweet reminder of their first, disrupted tryst from so many years before – one that this time ended better, with an all-encompassing mutual climax.

After migrating to his bed, Olivia knelt, head, elbows and hands on the mattress as he penetrated her a third time. Once imbedded, Elliot nudged her knees together, placed his outside of hers to tighten her tunnel about him. The resulting pleasure was so inconceivably good that her head flung back on the first, firm thrust. And she groaned his name with each successive plunge. She wanted to feel him everywhere inside her, sinking in deep from every possible angle. So she soon shifted up onto her hands and knees. After several blissed-out minutes, she knelt upright, wound her hands behind her, around his neck. Elliot kissed her flushed cheek and nodded at the mirror on the open closet door. He smiled at her reflection – he'd been watching them the whole time. Watching her receive him, enjoy him. Watching himself enveloped by her, excited by her. Her eyes widened and jaw dropped as she too watched. They looked amazing together – bodies pressed close, hers stretched and straining, his solid and certain as he shunted inside her, their wet skin slapping rhythmically together. It was enough to make her moan his name again, enough to make her close her eyes and come. Elliot followed her over the brink shortly afterwards.

Following a lazy recovery period, he let her ride him, let her do all the work while he simply smiled up at her. He liked having the weight of her on him, liked looking up and seeing all of her, running his hands over her belly as she lifted slowly up and down. Olivia came in this position, back arched and head tossed back on her neck. Elliot rearranged her exhausted body on the bed, spooned her against him then re-entered her. She sighed, coming again with his fingers circling her clitoris. He moved inside her for several long, slow, languid minutes, biting her shoulder before erupting within her. She went to sleep with his body surrounding her and no intention of fleeing his bed the next morning. She did not rise, gather her clothes and skulk away in shame, like she did the first time she shared her partner's bed. She didn't even need to roll over and find him in the bed. Because Elliot found her. Rolling into her warm, floppy body, pressing his body to her back, his erection into her butt.

It's how he wakes her now. With a light kiss on her ear and his hard cock sliding inside her. It doesn't matter how big or heavy she gets, the position always works, for both of them. It's intimacy, it's sensuality, it's ease. On the nights that she doesn't stay at his place, she misses waking up to him, to his body and breath, to their familiar joining. She's gotten used to it in such a short time. It feels like they've always been doing this – or maybe it just feels like they always should've been. Every night her kids spend with Graham and Isabella, she spends with Elliot. They eat, talk, make love, eat some more, sleep then make love again in the morning. Sometimes, when she has the kids, he comes over to the brownstone. Sophie adores him, commands most of his attention. Frankie and Charlie are beginning to warm to him, slowly adjusting to the split lives their parents are leading. Olivia watches Elliot's interactions with them from the corner of her eye, unable to suppress a smile. She feels like she's getting a sneak preview of what he'll be like as a father. And just as she's always suspected, he's going to be amazing.

After the kids go to bed, they make love, more often than not in the shower. Elliot feels uncomfortable making love or sleeping in her marriage bed. They both also want to give her kids all the time they need to adapt to their new family dynamic. So on the few occasions he does spend the night, Elliot always slips out early to go to work, leaving her, Charlie, Frankie and Sophie to their usual morning routine. She drops the boys at school, relishes the one-on-one time spent with Sophie and uses her free time to prepare for her new child, her new life. After a brief conversation, she and Graham agree to put brownstone on the market. He then moves all his things out of their old home and into Isabella's apartment. A week later, Elliot comes to her with a folded newspaper on which several advertisements have been circled. They begin investigating places that might accommodate them, their baby and her three kids. Olivia doubts they are going to find anything before the baby comes, not in the highly competitive and crowded market of New York. But she hates the idea moving after the birth.

Elliot lucks out though, stumbling across the perfect place for them during a routine canvas. Olivia makes him promise that no one was murdered in it and, two days later, they sign a lease. When they show her kids the new place, the boys give small smiles. Sophie zooms round in circles in the empty living room. This they take as a positive sign. The night before leaving the brownstone, Olivia stands in front of her mirror. She squeezes some moisturizer onto her palm, lathers her left ring finger in it then slides her engagement ring and wedding band off her finger. She opens a small silver case, places the rings inside and seals it up in a brown cardboard box. Then, taking the mirror down from the wall, Olivia wraps it in bubble wrap and places it by the box, ready for the movers to take away in the morning.

 **-x-**

She spends a full hour staring at the ceiling above the bed. She hadn't felt like making love earlier. She hadn't felt like eating or even talking. She just felt…strange. They went to bed early and she got a few hours of blank, light sleep. But she's been awake for a while now, counting the minutes between contractions. Her babies, when they come, tend to come fast. So after the last contraction fades, she reaches across, taps Elliot's arm with the back of her hand.

"El," she mutters, still staring at the ceiling. "El. Wake up."

"Nu-uh," he snuffles in his sleep, "Not yet…"

She turns her head to look at him. "What d'you mean not yet?"

"Not ready yet," he mumbles, folding his arms across his chest and turning away from her. "Two weeks…"

"Well, apparently not." She slaps his ass under the sheet then hauls her heavy body upright. "Get your ass in gear."

Elliot turns toward her, rubs his eyes. He blinks up at her as she starts stripping off her pyjamas and putting on her clothes. "It's?…seriously?…coming?"

She pulls a sweater on, gathers her hair into a ponytail. "You gonna join me for this or what?"

His head lifts from the pillow. "Yeah. O-okay—" He sits up, plants his feet on the floor. "Okay…wait—" He rises, looks around, looks lost. "Okay..." He reaches for his jeans, struggles into a t-shirt and leather jacket. He reaches for his badge and gun then seems to think better of it, turning towards her. "Okay. So…?"

She faces him across their new bedroom, fully dressed with her overnight bag in hand. "Ready?"

He chuckles sleepily. "Guess we'll soon find out..."

Olivia turns to the door, a small smile on her face. But Elliot takes a few steps after her, gently grasping her elbow.

"Hold on a sec—" When she stops and faces him on the threshold, he leans in to kiss her, soft and light and lingering. "…I love you."

She strokes his face with one hand. "I love you." Then draws in a breath as another contraction begins. "Now let's go."

 _ **TBC...**_


	8. Epilogue

Rating: this chapter, T

Disclaimer: Please see chapter one

Spoilers: Nada

Pairing: Elliot/Olivia

Summary: Final chapter of the final story in my Rice Trilogy

A/N: The lyrics at the top of this chapter are from the song "It Takes A Lot To Know A Man" from the album "My Favourite Faded Fantasy". The other songs quoted in this story are "My Favourite Faded Fantasy", "The Greatest Bastard" and "The Box". This whole album is pretty shippy and pretty EO (including "Colour Me In" and "I Don't Want To Change You") so I am really pleased to hear people are checking them out.

A/N2: For the last time, I want to thank those who followed these stories from the very beginning, always taking the time to offer comments or encouragement. It's been wonderful sharing this with you... xxx

* * *

 **epilogue**

 _It takes a lot to know a man_  
 _A lot to know, to understand_  
 _The father and the son, the hunter and the gun_  
 _It takes a lot know a woman_  
 _A lot to comprehend what's coming_  
 _The mother and the child, the muse and the beguiled_

 _It takes a lot to give, to ask for help_  
 _To be yourself, to know and love what you live with_  
 _It takes a lot to breathe, to touch, to feel_  
 _The slow reveal of what another body needs…_

Olivia wants to name the baby after him. To acknowledge what he gave them, how he saved them. Elliot wants to name their new child after her mother. Because she has Olivia's large brown eyes, her thick, dark hair and sweet, snub nose. But mostly because – much like her mother – he falls in love with her on sight. They compromise by taking two letters from each of their names and naming their newborn daughter Ella. Ella Benson Stabler is born two weeks early but perfectly healthy, despite all the drama that preceded her arrival. The birth is swift and straightforward, with no complications arising from Olivia's recent surgery. Doctors detain her an extra night, just to be sure, then allow mother and daughter to return home.

Overnight, Elliot has transformed their new abode into the baby friendly environment he and Olivia had been working toward but hadn't yet achieved. He's unpacked boxes, laid carpet and erected a crib. Between this new home, his new relationship with his former partner, their gorgeous new child, a brash new partner and an unexpected move to a shiny new stationhouse, he's looking at a whole new existence. Nothing in his life looks like it did just a few months prior. Internally, he is reeling – and grateful. High on his brand new blessings. Every time Ella cries, snuffles, squawks experimentally or wakes in the middle of the night, he's instantly alert, watching and savoring and faithfully standing sentry. He wakes with Olivia for every late-night, midnight, early-morning feed, keeps her company in the darkness of their bedroom. Propped up on pillows, they whisper back and forth as they watch Ella's eyes close and lips suckle. Elliot only goes back to sleep when they do.

After he returns to work, Olivia tells him he can't afford these constant disruptions to his sleep. Elliot can't help himself though – he can't help wanting to spend every waking minute with them, can't help rushing home at the end of each shift to see them. A picture of Olivia cradling Ella now sits on his desk. Another one lives in his wallet. And whenever his eyes fall on either, he can't help revealing a small, soft smile. Three weeks after her arrival, Olivia brings Ella in to meet the squad. Olivia's interested to see their new digs after the creaky pipes of the old stationhouse finally burst. She's also curious to meet the new partner she's been hearing so much about. Nick Amaro greets her with a wide smile and an outstretched hand. After delivering Ella into Munch's reluctant grip, Olivia extends her hand to Elliot's new partner. As they shake, Nick says he's heard a lot about her. Meanwhile, Munch holds her daughter at arm's length, looks her over through his specs, then passes her on to Fin. Fin cradles Ella against his broad chest and starts cooing with uncharacteristic gooiness. Cragen looks on, rocking on his heels and sporting a proud grin.

"Well done," he murmurs, slapping Elliot's shoulder in approval. "That's some nice work."

When Olivia glances his way with lifted brows, their boss adds with a slight stumble to his authoritative tone:

"Both of you. Obviously."

"S'more like it…" she mutters, turning her eyes onto her surroundings.

The new place is slick and spacious with all the high-tech devices that any committed crime-fighter might need. But she doesn't feel the same connection to it as she did to their old squadroom and regrets not having a chance to properly bid it goodbye. The rest of the squad seem perfectly at home there though, Elliot included. Elliot also seems to be settling into a routine with his new partner. It's a huge change after their long association but at least he still has her to come home to at the end of each long day. He can still return to someone who understands the pressures of the job, of partnership, someone who knows who he is within both.

One night, propped up in their bed, Elliot admits that Amaro often reminds him of his younger self, with his occasional recklessness and a propensity to get a little too invested, too frustrated, too forceful. Olivia smiles in the dim lamplight, their daughter feeding at her breast, as her ex-partner describes channeling his inner Benson in order to keep the rash rookie in line. She knows she will miss having Elliot as her partner when she returns to work. But she also suspects that this new partnership will be good for him, it might allow him to exercise different muscles, to grow into an even better cop than he already is. Apparently, Cragen agrees with her because, a few months later, he asks Elliot if he's considered sitting the Sergeant's exam.

"Cragen reckons," he murmurs that night, slumped shoulder pressed to hers, "that he can see me running the joint one day."

She takes a breath as she extracts Ella's lax mouth from her nipple. "Is that something you want?"

He watches her pull down her t-shirt then rise to place Ella in her cot. "I dunno…I always thought that would be your gig. Not mine."

Olivia dusts Ella's wispy hair off her forehead, lips curving into a quiet smile. "Mm, maybe in another life..." Then she turns to him, leaning back against the crib.

Elliot meets her eyes in the dark. "You think I should do it?"

Her head bobs slowly, her smile increases. "I do."

He reaches for her hand, draws her back to the bed. "Then maybe…" he sighs tiredly, contentedly as she settles in his arms, "…maybe I will."

Three months later, Cragen retires, Munch supersedes him as Captain and Elliot aces the Sergeant's exam. So that when Olivia returns to work, it's to a whole new SVU. She's partnered with Fin while Elliot remains with Amaro. Often, when working the same case, they can't help gravitating to each other, bouncing ideas off each other, returning to old rhythms and habits. This happens rarely though, as they try to work opposite rosters so that one of them can always be with Ella. As a result, they barely see each other and when they do, one or both of them is tetchy and exhausted. Ella doesn't like this new arrangement any more than they do. Their normally sweet-tempered girl expresses her disapproval with broken sleep patterns, endless screaming and a refusal to feed. This, added to the fact that at one point in her busy schedule she goes a whole week without seeing Frankie, Charlie and Sophie, has Olivia seriously reconsidering her career of choice. She has given so much time and energy to SVU but now her energy, her passion, her mind and body all feel exhausted by everything she's seen and done. By all that's expected of her. And by the thought of the countless, merciless years stretching ahead of her. When she admits this to Elliot one night, he looks at her with horror.

Adjusting the pillow beneath his head, he blinks a few times before haltingly answering, "You're…not thinking of…leaving. Are you?"

Olivia slides her head across to his pillow, leans her temple against his bare shoulder. "…I don't know..."

Elliot's arm encircles her. "I just—…can't imagine who you'd be…without SVU."

"Me neither," she muses, one palm smoothing over the well-known planes of his chest. She glances up at him as she adds, "But maybe that's why I should leave. To…figure it out. Figure out…who else I might be."

"Other than Detective Benson?"

"Exactly…"

His arm tightens around her and his lips dip to kiss her forehead. "I'd miss you."

Moving her cheek onto his chest, she nods against his skin, closes her eyes to his rising and falling breath. "I'd miss you too…"

A month later, Olivia puts in her papers. The squad throws a dry party in one of the interview rooms. They toast her with plastic cups of soda, deliver speeches covering her most famous exploits and whoop loudly when Elliot pulls her close and kisses her hard. As the two of them are leaving for the night, a blonde woman alights the elevator, asking with a southern twang where she might find Captain Munch. Olivia points the way, assuming that the newbie will replace her as Fin's partner. Then she boards the elevator and leaves the 16th precinct, her long-time partner at her side.

It will not, in fact, be the last time she works in that squadroom or the last time she collaborates with the fine band of professionals she has come to love so much. She spends two years as a stay-at-home mom, another year obtaining a credential in counseling. She enjoys unfettered time with all her kids – she is present for Sophie's first day of school and for the day Charlie wins the school spelling bee and for the day Frankie falls down a flight of stairs, grazing his knees, elbows and chin. Olivia is also present on the day that Sophie Senior collapses in her home. She's the one who calls the ambulance, who comforts her while they come and who later informs Graham that his mother has suffered a severe stroke. She holds his hand in the hospital waiting room as the doctor relays the news that his mother may never fully recover. Sophie hangs on for several weeks but eventually lapses into a coma and passes away. In her will, she leaves a considerable amount of money to her son and a smaller sum to each of her grandchildren, Ella included. Olivia is surprised and touched to discover that Sophie never excised her from her will or intended to. At the reading, Graham explains that his mother continued to consider her her daughter, even after their divorce.

Olivia still feels uneasy about receiving the money from her former mother-in-law. She spends many months mulling over what to do with it, whether to simply split Sophie's money between her kids. In the end, she comes up with an idea that is far more meaningful. When she tells Elliot her idea – late at night, in the half-dark, in their warm bed, where all of their best conversations occur – he kisses her and tells her that her idea is perfect. He says he'll support her all the way, do whatever he can to help.

"Have you thought of a name?" he asks, fingers playing with the ends of her hair.

"I was thinking," she answers, voice low and slow, "I was thinking of…The Serena Benson Foundation."

Elliot kisses her again. "…Perfect."

It's several years before the Foundation is fully up and running. She's already got the contacts – she enlists Simone Bryce, Sister Peg and several others she came across during her years with SVU. And she's got the passion – a renewed passion that flares back to life with the first woman's life that is exponentially improved by their support. They offer free counseling, food vouchers, daily lunch, housing assistance, legal representation, group therapy and a babysitting service for single working moms. They soon begin working closely with the Special Victims Units in all five boroughs, giving particular support to victims of rape, sexual assault and abuse. Olivia works mostly with the Manhattan branch, developing a relationship with her home unit that benefits the victims, their families and the over-worked, under-resourced cops working their cases.

Like her previous career, the work can sometimes be exhausting, frustrating, even demoralizing. But the steadily increasing number of success stories ultimately makes all their effort worthwhile. Simone, Sister Peg and numerous volunteers share the burden with her. After exiting the police force, Rebecca Hendrix becomes an integral part of the team, bringing Maureen's services as the Foundation's in-house lawyer with her. Due to such support, Olivia is often able to work from home or bring Ella to work with her. Looking at her youngest – or at any of her children – encourages her push through any difficulty she may encounter in this new role, finding the hope and joy on the other side. And if, on a particularly frustrating day, she needs more than this, Olivia looks up at the twin portraits hung on her office wall. One is of the mother she never knew, a woman who chose to leave the world because she didn't receive the support she needed. The other is of the mother figure who loved and supported her for so many years, a woman who helped turn a vision in her head into a fully functioning reality. Then, at the end of each day, she heads home to the man in her life who understands it all, the man who makes her smile, the man who makes love with her then holds her while she sleeps.

The fourth time she falls pregnant is entirely planned. Unlike any of her former pregnancies, she and Elliot aim to conceive another child. As the devoted father of Ella and an equally eager stepfather to Sophie, Frankie and Charlie, Elliot has become addicted. When he first floats the idea of another baby, Olivia makes sure he understands that five is her absolute limit, the very last time she is ever doing this. Elliot just grins, kisses her neck and starts unbuttoning her shirt. Neither of them is as young as they once were so it takes several months for them to succeed. Their efforts to conceive are consistently adventurous, sometimes intense, at other times playful but always deeply intimate, passionate and tender. From day one, Elliot starts bringing home packs of pregnancy tests, several sticks in each box. Finally, Olivia pees on one and gets the answer they both want. From her seat on the closed toilet lid, she looks up at him. And smiles. Elliot jiggles Ella in his arms, tells her she's going to be a big sister. Ella gurgles and head-butts his chest. So he does it again. Olivia rises from the toilet seat, walks slowly toward her partner. Then she kisses him as Ella palms their cheeks with her tiny hands.

Less than forty weeks later, their son is born. Noah has Elliot's blue eyes, high forehead and swift right hook. And he immediately becomes Ella's favorite toy to play with. The week after his birth, Elliot returns to the tattoo parlor owned by the woman with the red specs. Christ stretches his arms across his right bicep while the scar on the right side of his body has faded to a thin, insignificant streak. His left forearm boasts an old tattoo he acquired during his time in the Air Force – two wings and a star are inked into his skin, along with the words, _No One Comes Close_. Adding to this collection, Elliot has the names **Ella** and **Noah** tattooed onto his chest, right over his heart. Beneath their names, in a more flowing font, he has another beloved name etched into his skin – **_Olivia_**.

From that day on, whenever they make love, she will always press a palm over his heart, covering the three names, kissing his chest, his skin, his bones and muscle, the beating heart buried within that loves so outrageously, so devotedly, so wildly. Whenever Olivia does this, she's reminded of a time when all he was was her partner, her friend, her fantasy. Whenever she does this, Elliot's reminded of the same. Both recall how silently and desperately they loved and wanted to be loved in return. Both recall how tempting, how impossible that fantasy then seemed. And how it has faded in contrast to the sweet, settled chaos of their shared new reality.

 _ **END.** _


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